I0T 


•1 


OF   IFE 


GIFT  OF 


PICTURES   OF   LIFE 


IN 


CAMP  AND  FIELD 


BY 


AUTHOR  OF  u  ATTRACTIONS  OF  LANGUAGE,"  kk  OLD  TIME  PICTURES, 
"THE  WORLD  ON  WHEELS,"  KTC.,  ETC, 


THIRD  EDITION. 


CHICAGO: 
S.   C.   GRIGGS   &   COMPANY. 

1888. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1875    by 

S.  C.  GRIGGS  &  CO., 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


TO 

HON.  THOMAS   B.  BRYAN, 

OF 

CHICAGO  AND    ELMHURST, 

THIS    LITTLE    PACKAGE    OF    LETTERS 

I  S 

GRATEFULLY  INSCRIBED. 
MAY,  1875. 


LETTER    LIST. 


On  the  Threshold, 5 

From  one  World  to  Another, 7 

Going  to  the  Front,          .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .11 

Three  November  Days, 17 

The  Theatre,             17 

The  Smiting  of  the  Shield, 27 

The  Capture  of  Lookout  Mountain, 39 

The  Storming  of  Mission  Ridge, 51 

Thanksgiving  at  Chattanooga,          .......  79 

After  the  Battle, 85 

A  Mountain  Camp,           .........  88 

A  Soldier's   Morning, 91 

Every-day  Life  under  Canvas, 94 

The  Hospital  after  the  Battle,              103 

Woman,  the  Soldier's  Friend, 108 

Night  Ride  of  the  Wounded  Brigade, no 

Army  Chaplains, IIQ 

The  Soldier's  "First  Man," 125 

Hearing  from  Home, 128 

The  New  England  Schoolma'am, 130 

Dressing  for  Battle, 132 

Surveying  on  Horseback,              134 

Old-time  Forts  and  New, 136 

A  Flash  of  Sunshine, 139 

A  Little  Picture, 142 

"  Dinner  to  the  Front," 144 

"  Getting  the  Idea,"          .........  149 


LETTER    LIST. 

A  Medal  Struck  in  the  Sky, .153 

«'  Small  Deer," 154 

Army  Pets, ^5° 

A  Flag  of  Truce 159 

A  River  Route  in  War  Time 162 

The  Devil's  Coffee  Mill 164 

Fatigue, 166 

The  Little  Orderly, 168 

Nashville  Street  Scenes, 170 

A  Hint  of  Desolation, 176 

A  late  Breakfast  at  Chattanooga,     .         .         .         .  f  .         .184 

A  Potomac  Trip  in  War  Time, 186 

In  Memoriam. —  Ad  Astra, 189 

Keeping  House  under  Difficulties 194 

"  Nearness  of  Mind," 200 

War  and  Words, 202 

Alexandria  in  '64. —  Soldiers'  Rest. 205 

Washington  in  July,  '64, 209 

The  Scout  and  the  Spy, 218 

A  Divided   Household, 223 

The  War  Department, 226 

Two  Battle-fields  a  Year  OICL 231 

Danger  and  Desolation, 236 

Under  which  King, 243 

Flowers,  Poetry  and  Heroes, 249 

A  Soldier's  "Till," 256 

Ended,               .                                           269 


ON    THE   THRESHOLD. 


A  FEW  fragments  ot  old  letters  compose  this  volume. 
They  are  not  in  disguise.  They  wear  the  every-day 
apparel  of  first  expression  just  as  it  was  fashioned  at 
the  Front.  They  are  to  a  chapter  or  two  of  History 
only  what  the  work  of  the  wood-engraver  is  to  the 
printed  page — just  a  few  pictures  to  brighten  the  well- 
considered  utterances  of  the  historic  Muse. 

Written  some  years  ago  to  the  Chicago  Evening 
Journal,  thousands  who  lent  them  life  or  gave  them 
heed  have  passed  away.  But  the  deeds  have  not  per 
ished  ;  the  story  remains ;  the  pictures  are  undimmed. 
Illustrating  American  manhood,  those  deeds  are  the 
heritage  of  all  the  people. 

One  bright  day  in  May,  a  year  ago,  the  author  stood 
in  Rose  Hill  Cemetery,  Chicago,  between  the  quick  and 
the  dead.  Pausing  on  the  threshold  of  this  little 
book  he  is  standing  between  the  living  and  the  dead 


VI  ON    THE    THRESHOLD. 

once  more,  and  he  thinks 'the  same  thought  ana  says 
the  same  words : 

We  have  come  into  court,  this  court  of  the  Lord,  • 

To  bear  witness  for  them  that  can  utter  no  word. 

Bare-hearted  and  browed  in  this  presence  we  stand, 

For  the  gift  Pentecostal  comes  down  on  the  land  ; 

To  speak  for  the  speechless  how  witnesses  throng, 

And  the  earth  is  all  voice,  and  the  air  is  all  song ! 

There's  a  fleet  of  white  ships  blown  abroad  on  the  deep, 

And  their  courses  forever  they  peacefully  keep, 

And  they  toss  us  a  roar  and  it  melts  into  words, 

And  they  strike  to  the  heart  like  the  sweeping  of  swords : 

"Would  ye  honor  the  men  you  must  look  in  their  graves, 

Who  did  score  danger  out  with  their  wakes  from  the  waves." 

There  are  soft,  fleecy  clouds  fast  asleep  in  the  sun, 

Like  a  flock  of  white  sheep  when  the  washing  is  done, 

Not  a  breath  of  a  battle  is  staining  the  blue, 

It  is  nothing  but  Paradise  all  the  way  through  ! 

There  are  domes  of  white  blossoms  where  swelled  the  white  tent, 

There  are  plows  in  the  field  where  the  war  wagons  went, 

There  are  songs  where  they  lifted  up  Rachel's  lament. 

Would  you  know  what  this  mighty  beatitude  cost, 

You  must  search  in  the  graves  for  what  Liberty  lost ! 

Ye  that  trod  the  acanthus  and  trampled  it  down, 

And  it  turned  at  the  touch  a  Corinthian  crown  ! 

Disenthralled  from  your  graves  you  have  left  them  alone, 

We  will  borrow  them  now  for  these  dead  of  our  own  ! 

Let  us  bury  all  bitterness,  passion  and  pride, 

Lay  the  rankling  old  wrong  to  its  rest  by  their  side, 

Keeping  step  to  the  manhood  that  marches  the  zone, 

And  believe  the  good  GOD  will  take  care  of  His  own! 


IN   CAMP  AND   FIELD. 


FROM  ONE   WORLD   TO  ANOTHER. 

IT  happened  to  me  to  follow,  for  a  time,  the  fortunes 
of  the  Army  of  the  Cumberland ;  not  to  grasp  a  mus 
ket,  but  to  wield  a  meaner  implement  and  trifle  with  a 
pen.  And  yet  you  must  believe  that  some  stray  nerve 
of  mine  felt  down  its  way  at  last,  to  that  pencil's 
point,  and  almost  before  I  knew  it,  I  was  writing  my 
heart  out  in  admiration  and  love  for  the  fortitude  and 
valor  of  those  Federal  journeymen  of  ours,  splendid  in 
doing,  and  grand  in  suffering. 

To  pass  in  forty  hours  from  fields  where  a  thistle  is  a 
sin  to  regions  where  bayonets  sprout  as  dense  as  the 
springing  corn  in  June,  is  like  being  born  into  a  new 
world.  If  the  reader  will  visit  one  of  the  noble 
Chicago  Elevators — those  immense  houses  for  a  mighty 
hand  to  move  in,  that  tosses  about  the  grain  as  lightly 
as  the  farmer  sows  the  seed ;  if  he  will  watch  the 
golden  produce  of  a  broad  State  received  as  easily  as 


8          A::/: ;-Bi<j¥ij:R5^-qF:  LIFE 

Noah,  first  Admiral  of  "  the  red,  white  and  blue,"  took 
in  the  returning  bird  ;  if  he  will  follow  that  grain  to  the 
snowy  loaves  and  the  laden  tables  of  half  a  continent ; 
to  the  tons  of  white  tiles  of  hard-bread  in  a  thousand 
Federal  camps ;  if  he  will  think  what  a  benignant  hand 
of  Providence  that  Elevator  is,  and  then,  if,  after  all 
this,  he  will  fancy  an  establishment  away  at  the  other 
extreme  of  the  arc  of  human  invention,  as  totally 
unlike  in  its  office  and  results  as  two  things  can  be,  and 
exist  on  the  same  planet,  he  will  have  precisely  the 
place  I  first  blundered  into — the  Ordnance  Depot  of 
the  Army  of  the  Cumberland.  If  you  are  given  to 
glowing  words,  be  dumb  ;  if  there  be  any  fire  in  your 
eye,  be  pleased  to  shut  it  while  here,  among  kegs  and 
barrels  of  the  fine  black  grain  that  sows  fields  with 
death  ;  among  boxes  of  cartridges  without  end  ;  among 
rows  of  canister;  among  nests  of  shells,  out  of  v/hich 
shall  be  hatched  a  terrible  brood ;  among  cases  of 
every  species  of  irritable  combustible  known  in  war; 
among  clusters  of  the  grape  that  presses  the  wine  of  life 
out ;  in  the  midst  of  death  in  every  form  that  flies. 
Sentinels  stand  aside,  doors  unbolted  and  unbarred 
swing  open,  a  gush  of  cool  air  meets  you,  the  shutters 
are  thrown  open,  and  the  treasures  of  the  magazine  are 
revealed.  Wooden  boxes  of  four  colors,  boxes,  boxes, 
everywhere — olive,  red,  black  and  white.  Be  seated 


INCAMPANDFIELD.  9 

upon  that  olive  box ;  it  contains  nothing  but  solid  shot, 
or,  perhaps,  percussion  shell.  In  the  red,  you  will  be 
sure  to  find  spherical  case-shot ;  in  the  white  boxes,  can 
ister;  and  in  the  black,  that  diabolical  chronometer, 
time-shell.  Take  your  choice  of  a  seat  and  be  happy. 
Look  through  a  glass  magnifying  about  sixty  times  at 
an  old-fashioned  clock-weight,  and  you  will  see  pretty 
nearly  such  a  thing  as  stands  there  at  your  right,  and 
which  happens  to  be  a  hundred-pound  "  Parrott "  shell. 
A  dull  affair  to  look  at,  but  give  it  a  ration  of  nine 
pounds  of  powder  and  a  good  range,  and  it  will 
"make"  four  miles  in  twelve  seconds  at  a  cost  of  ten 
dollars,  and  possibly  something  else  that  it  would 
puzzle  you  to  enter  in  a  cash-book. 

Those  little  round  coops,  about  the  size  of  a  lantern, 
with  wooden  top  and  bottom  and  two  wire  rings 
between,  contain,  as  you  see,  a  cluster  of  nine  such 
grapes  as  vine-dresser  never  cultivated.  They  together 
weigh  eighteen  pounds,  and  by  that  handle  you  can 
swing  them  about  like  a  dinner-pail.  Give  a  twenty- 
four-pound  gun  six  pounds  of  powder  and  one  coop, 
and  that  cluster  will  make  nine  terrible  and  deadly  lines 
of  flight.  We  are  not  well  out  of  the  fruit  business, 
for  there  are  thousands  of  long  tin  cans,  looking  home 
like  and  harmless  enough  to  hold  the  best  berry  God 
ever  made,  that  you  put  up  for  next  Christmas.  They 


10  PICTURES     OF    LIFE 

are  twenty-five  pound  canisters,  filled  with  shrapnel, 
five  dozen  musket-balls,  and  packed  in,  like  "  Isabellas," 
with  saw-dust,  as  if  they  were  something  to  "  keep." 
Driven  from  a  thirty-two  with  eight  pounds  of  powder, 
your  fruit-can  goes  to  pieces,  and  the  bullets  scatter  as 
from  a  tremendous,  wide-mouthed  musket. 

And  here  we  are  pleasantly  walking  where  sleeps  an 
earthquake  ;  making  each  other  hear  where  slumbers  a 
voice  that  could  shake  these  everlasting  hills.  Ah, 
what  a  flash  of  lightning  or  a  glowing  coal  could  do  for 
all  this!  That  is  not  a  potash-kettle  you  have  sat 
down  upon — it's  a  shell ! 

There  are  "  Parrotts  "  with  their  long,  black  shafts, 
"  reinforced  "  at  the  breech,  like  a  trooper's  trowsers. 
There  are  bright  "  Napoleons "  brisk  and  spiteful, 
twelves,  twenty-fours,  thirty-twos,  and  so  on  and  so  up. 
Here  is  a  sturdy  fellow  that  growled  at  Stone  River ; 
there,  a  grim  one  that  roared  at  Shiloh ;  yonder,  a 
"  Columbiad "  made  at  Memphis.  Do  you  see  those 
pairs  of  immense  wheels?  They  are  not  mill-wheels, 
but  only  the  carriages  of  siege-guns.  If  it  blows  at  all 
in  this  roomy  kennel,  it  must  literally  "  blow  great 
guns."  Those  rows  of  carts  with  the  black  boxes  and 
the  convex  covers  are  not  young  bakers'  wagons  gone 
into  mourning,  as  you  might  think,  but  only  battery 
forges,  the  blacksmith's  shops  of  Mars'  own  fiery  self. 


IN    CAMP    AND     FIELD.  II 

And    so    we    have    seen    thunder    "  in    the     original 
package." 

GOING    TO    THE   FRONT. 

You  pass  through  Kentucky,  "  the  dark  and  bloody 
ground,"  into  Tennessee,  a  beautiful  fertile  land  gone 
to  seed.  The  villages  lie  asleep,  like  lazy  dogs,  in  the 
sun  ;  stores  are  closed,  shops  deserted  ;  through  a  land 
dotted  with  the  inkiest  imaginable  heads,  as  if  some 
psalm-tune  had  tumbled  out  of  the  score  and  sprinkled 
the  landscape  with  Ethiopian  rain. 

The  print  of  War's  ringers  is  before  you.  Now  you 
see  a  gate  left  standing,  by  some  strange  freak,  between 
its  two  posts — a  gate  without  a  fence.  And  there  it 
swings  open  upon  a  path  leading  to  Nowhere !  Not  a 
house,  not  a  threshold,  only  a  heap  of  stone  and  a 
blackened  tree  to  tell  the  story.  Now  you  see  the 
skeleton  of  a  house,  if  I  may  call  it  so ;  the  building 
stripped  of  all  covering,  gaunt  and  ghastly  there  in  its 
bones.  Now  a  brick  mansion  catches  the  eye ;  its 
doors,  weary  of  turning,  stand  wide  open ;  its  garden 
shivers  with  weeds ;  the  negro  quarters  empty,  the 
fields  ragged  and  fenceless  as  the  air,  and  not  a  living 
soul !  It  may  not  seem  so  to  you,  but  I  have  never  felt 
so  heavy  a  sense  of  loneliness  as  when  I  have  seen 


12  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

broad  forests  of  tall  corn,  the  blackened  stalks  two 
years  old,  springing  out  of  earth  fairly  turfed  over  and 
matted,  the  rusted  plow  careened  in  one  corner,  a 
wreck  on  a  lee  shore ;  ears  of  withered  corn  yet  cling 
ing  to  the  russet  stems;  visions  of  " hoe-cake"  far  off 
and  dim ;  the  masters  away  in  the  rebel  ranks ;  the 
"people"  strown  to  the  four  winds. 

As  you  near  the  region  of  the  Cumberlands  the 
scenery  begins  to  grow  grand  ;  the  great,  wavy  lines  of 
the  mountains  sweep  up  bravely  toward  heaven,  and 
sink  down  into  great  troughs  of  green,  but  the  train 
makes  steadily  for  the  strong  horizon ;  between  ledges 
of  God's  masonry ;  through  grooves  hewn  in  the  rocks, 
winding  this  way  and  that,  run  the  cars.  The  woods 
begin  to  stand  up,  here  and  there,  like  people  in  a 
great  congregation,  as  if  the  spurs  of  the  Cumberland 
were  thrust  into  the  flanks  of  creation,  and  it  was  rous 
ing  up  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  the  rowels.  An  engine 
comes  behind  to  give  us  a  lift  up  a  prodigious  grade  of 
two  hundred  and  fifty  feet  to  the  mile.  We  are  going 
through  the  mountain.  A  tunnel,  half  a  mile  in  length, 
yawns  to  swallow  us  with  a  throat  black  as  a  wolf's 
mouth.  Above  it  towers  the  wooded  crown,  hundreds 
of  feet ;  close  at  our  right  the  world  seems  to  make  a 
mis-step  and  tumble  into  a  deep  ravine.  A  railroad 
diverges  from  our  track  before  we  reach  the  tunnel,  and 


IN    CAMP    AND     FIELD.  13 

runs  zigzag  over  the  mountain  to  a  coal-mine,  scarring 
its  side  with  a  great  letter  Z.  Up  tugs  the  train  to  an 
entrance  over  which  might  well  be  traced,  "  Those  who 
enter  here  leave  hope  behind  ! "  We  turn  our  backs 
upon  a  shining  sun ;  it  is  twilight,  night,  a  darkness 
that  can  be  felt ;  it  is  like  putting  your  eyes  out. 
There  is  a  lull  in  the  steady  talk,  no  laugh  comes  from 
the  gloom,  and  so  we  blunder  and  thunder  through  the 
mountain,  and  go  over  the  other  side,  down  the  camel's 
back,  along  a  track  curved  like  a  sickle,  "  by  the  run." 

The  railroad  route  from  Bridgeport  to  Chattanooga 
is  one  of  the  wildest  and  most  picturesque  on  the  con 
tinent.  You  make  straight  at  the  solid  mountain,  but 
creep  through  a  cleft  and  keep  on ;  you  swing  around  a 
curve  and  hang  over  a  gorge,  but  you  play  "  the  devil 
on  two  sticks"  and  pass  it ;  you  run  like  a  mouse  along 
a  narrow  shelf  high  up  the  rocky  wall,  the  bewildered 
Tennessee  far  beneath,  winding  this  way  and  that  to 
escape  from  the  enchanted  mountains.  It  flashes  out 
upon  you  here,  curved  like  a  cimeter ;  it  ties  the  hills 
up  there  with  love-knots  of  broad  ribbon.  The  sky 
line  rises  and  falls  around  you  like  a  heavy  sea ;  black 
heaps  of  coal  high  up  the  mountains,  look  like  blots 
on  this  roughest  of  pages  in  Nature's  "  writing-book." 
The  dark  cedars  counterfeit  deep  shadows.  You  go 
through  a  stone  gateway  of  the  Lord's  building,  and  a 


14  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

deep  valley  is  under  your  feet.  You  look  far  across  to 
the  other  side.  Will  the  train  run  straight  out  into 
mid-air?  Will  it  take  wings  and  fly?  It  is  gliding 
cautiously  out  upon  the  bridge  at  Falling  Water ;  the 
boys  in  blue  far  down,  look  like  drops  of  indigo ;  you 
are  safe  over,  and  you  thank  God  and  take  courage. 
You  pass  the  ruins  of  hostile  camps ;  the  huts  are  gone, 
but  the  swallow's-nest  fire-places  remain,  and  the  hill 
sides  seem  strown  with  old,  rusty  honey-comb. 

And  all  along  the  rugged  way,  at  every  station, 
bridge,  ravine,  are  rifle-pits  and  earthworks,  the  rude 
signature  rebellion  has  compelled ;  grim  War's,  his  f 
mark;  and  all  along,  those  journeymen  of  ours  grouped 
to  sec  the  train  go  by ;  the  train,  their  one,  long,  slen 
der  link  with  the  dear  old  homes  of  the  North.  The 
black  throats  of  cannon  gape  at  you  over  the  tops  of 
their  kennels,  in  unexpected  places.  The  tunes  the 
drummer  beats,  all  shattered  on  the  crags  around,  come 
tumbling  back  upon  the  player's  head. 

So,  through  these  grand  and  everlasting  halls  we 
made  our  way,  and  when  the  Morning  walked  to  and 
fro  upon  the  top  of  night,  and  stepped  from  height  to 
height,  and  pines  took  fire  and  cliffs  of  gray  were  glori 
fied,  it  seemed  a  mighty  minster,  and  I  did  not  wonder 
God  gave  the  law  from  Sinai ;  that  the  beatitudes  were 
shed,  like  Hermon's  dew,  from  a  mountain 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  15 

Sometimes  the  valleys  widened  into  fields;  garden 
plats  beneath  us  looked  like  the  squares  of  a  checker 
board,  and  clusters  of  poor  little  dwellings,  each  lazily 
smoking  a  big  chimney,  seemed  having  their  morning 
gossip  together ;  now  and  then,  a  house  was  perched 
high  up  the  mountain,  and  buzzards,  graceful  nowhere 
except  in  the  air,  were  librating,  rocking  on  their  broad 
wings  far  below  it.  A  glorious  region  for  painter  and 
poet,  whatever  plowman  may  make  of  it.  At  last, 
threading  a  needle's  eye  of  a  tunnel  we  begin  to  get 
into  broader  ground  and  the  Tennessee  bears  us  com 
pany.  We  wind  around  the  angle  of  the  mountain 
wall  of  Lookout ;  camps  glittering  on  the  hills  every 
where  in  the  morning  sun,  tumuli  of  red  earth,  with 
sentinels  pacing  to  and  fro,  regiments  checkering  the 
low  grounds,  engines  backing  and  filling,  great  store 
houses  showing  new  in  their  fresh-planed  wood,  forts 
dumb  but  not  dead,  the  whole  landscape  alive  with 
crowds  and  caravans.  And  there  in  the  middle  of  it 
all,  like  a  rusty  hatchet  buried  in  the  live  oak  that  grew 
around  it,  lies  CHATTANOOGA  with  its  ceaseless  eddies 
of  armed  life,  swords  and  muskets  forever  drifting  and 
shifting  about  in  them ;  good  words  and  bad  stirred  in 
together,  as  if  the  crowd  had  been  sowed  with  German, 
French,  English  and  Ethiopian  lexicons,  and  was  just 
being  harvested;  "hard  tack"  and  hard  talk  struggling 


l6  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

in  and  out  together  at  the  same  mouths,  and  hurry 
treading  on  the  heels  of  haste.  Upon  the  sidewalks  is 
a  ceaseless  play  of  blue  legs  with  an  unending  proces 
sion  of  blue  coats ;  humanity  seems  done  in  indigo, 
dotted  with  sutlers,  clerks  out  of  livery,  correspondents 
and  faded-out  natives.  And  on  all  this  multitude  you 
may  look  all  day,  and  not  see  one  woman  of  the  noble 
race  that  put  men  upon  their  honor  and  make  the 
world  braver  and  purer.  To  be  sure,  there  is  Aunt 
Chloe  in  turban  all  afire,  like  a  very  so*oty  chimney  red- 
hot  at  the  top ;  and  there  is  Dinah  "  larding  the  lean 
earth"  and  looking  as  if  Goodyear  might  have  a 
patent  for  her  among  his  rubber  goods ;  and  there  too 
is  a  colorless  native  from  the  rural  districts,  whom  I 
saw  an  hour  ago,  dressed  in  white,  un-crinolined,  un- 
flounced,  unwashed,  as  limp  as  a  wet  napkin.  She 
stood  by  the  post-office  door  apparently  spitting  at  a 
mark — tobacco  juice  at  that — and  she  delivered  her  fire 
with  great  accuracy. 

But  it  was  not  that  stronghold  among  the  mountains 
that  I  went  to  see.  It  was  to  find  the  neighbor  I  had 
missed  out  of  the  summer-fallow,  where  I  had  seen  him 
plodding  year  after  year,  without  knowing  him  at  all ; 
who  had  been  walking  through  the  world  in  disguise  all 
his  days ;  whose  heart  had  grown  large  with  the  grand 
est  of  all  loves,  that  sweeps  like  a  great  horizon  around 
all  meaner  passion ;  had  turned  into  a  hero  in  the 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  I? 

twinkling  of  an  eye,  as  the  dead  shall  be  raised  ;  had 
put  on  the  martyr's  thorny  crown  with  a  smile,  or  had 
gone  up,  like  the  Prophet  in  a  chariot  of  fire.  It  was 
to  see  the  old  deeds  packed  away  in  history  step  out 
from  the  silent  lines  of  the  printed  page,  and  stand 
unsandaled  on  the  ground,  to  make  room  for  the  new, 
that  have  illustrated  the  year  just  dead — tangible,  ear 
nest,  solemn,  glorious. 

THREE  NOVEMBER  DAYS. 

The  smiting  of  the  enemy's  crescent  front  at  Mission 
Ridge  on  the  twenty-third  of  November,  1863,  the  cap 
ture  of  Lookout  Mountain  on  the  twenty-fourth,  and 
the  storming  of  Mission  Ridge  on  the  twenty-fifth, 
were  really  the  three  acts  of  one  splendid  Drama.  The 
letters  describing  them  are  placed  upon  these  pages, 
perhaps  unwisely,  just  as  they  were  written — dim  and 
imperfect  pictures  taken  by  the  flash  of  great  guns. 
The  play  was  grand,  but  what  could  be  grander  than 

THE    THEATRE. 

SUNDAY — TWENTY-SECOND. 

Sunday  by  the  calendar — Sunday  by  the  sweet  Sab 
bath  bells  of  the  peaceful  North,  but  what  shall  I 
name  it  here  ?  Men  are  busy  wrenching  up  and  carry- 


18  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

ing  away  seats  in  a  church  near  by,  and  leaving  a  clear 
area  for  a  hospital ;  pallets  for  pews,  the  dead  for  the 
word  of  mercy.  And  why  not  ?  The  worshipers  that 
gathered  there  are  scattered  and  gone.  You  may  ask 
for  the  leaves  of  autumn  as  well.  The  old  psalm  has 
died  out  along  the  walls,  and  fancy  halts  at  the  thought 
of  what  may  be  heard  in  its  stead. 

Yesterday  was  gloomy  with  clouds  and  rain.  To-day 
dawned  out  of  Paradise.  Would  you  have  the  pic 
ture?  Stand  with  me  as  I  stood  this  morning,  near 
Major-General  Granger's  Headquarters,  here  in  the 
heart  of  Chattanooga.  As  the  sun  comes  up,  the  mists 
lift  grandly,  trail  along  the  tops  of  the  mountains,  and 
are  folded  up  in  heaven.  The  horizon  all  around  rises 
and  falls  like  the  waves  of  the  sea.  Stretching  along 
the  east  and  trending  slightly  away  to  the  southwest, 
you  see  an  undulating  ridge  edged  with  a  thin  fringe  of 
trees.  Along  the  sides,  which  have  been  shorn  of  their 
woods  for  the  play  of  the  battle-hammers,  if  you  look 
closely,  you  shall  see  camps  sprinkled  like  flocks  away 
on  till  the  ridge  melts  out  of  sight ;  you  shall  see  guns 
and  men  in  gray.  That  is  Mission  Ridge,  and  you  are 
looking  upon  what  your  heart  does  not  warm  to.  You 
are  in  the  presence  of  the  enemy. 

Now,  turning  to  the  right,  you  look  south  upon  the 
lowlands,  and  the  farther  edge  of  the  picture  is  dotted 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  ig 

with  more  tents  and  more  men  in  gray.  Away  in  the 
distance,  a  cone  rises  ambitiously,  not  far  enough  off  to 
be  blue,  but  you  forget  it  in  an  instant  as  the  eye 
climbs  bravely  up  a  wooded  line,  higher  and  higher,  to 
a  craggy  crown,  wrinkled  with  ravines,  and  crested  with 
trees,  that,  hanging  like  a  great  frown  between  earth 
and  heaven,  then  dropping  abruptly  away,  as  you  turn 
southwestward,  subsides  into  a  valley  through  which 
the  wandering  Tennessee  creeps  into  this  Federal 
stronghold.  Midway  of  the  gigantic  side,  shorn  of  its 
oaks,  like  the  Ridge,  you  see  a  house,  a  checker  of 
white  upon  the  brown  swell  of  earth  and  stones. 
Lookout  Mountain  is  before  you,  grim  and  grand.  The 
glorious  glimpses  of  five  States  granted  to  them  who 
stand  upon  the  mighty  threshold  between  this  world 
and  that,  are  denied  to  us  just  now,  and  we  must  bide 
our  time.  You  can  look  upon  Tennessee,  Georgia,  Ala 
bama  ;  you  can  see  the  dim  looming  of  the  Blue 
Ridge  and  Bald  Peak,  and  the  smoky  ranges  of  the 
"  old  North  State/'  the  shadow  of  whose  King's  Moun 
tain  is  sacred  for  all  time,  since  thence  came  that  first 
whisper  for  independence  which,  at  last,  broke  out 
aloud  around  the  British  throne.  The  morning  has 
worn  away  to  eight  o'clock,  when  from  the  very  tip  of 
the  crest  rolls  a  little  gray  cloud,  as  if  unseen  hands 
were  about  to  wind  the  rugged  brow  with  a  turban. 


20  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

In  an  instant,  a  heavy  growl  and  the  rebel  gun  has  said 
"  good  morning "  to  Hooker's  camps  in  the  Valley 
beyond.  You  cannot  get  out  of  sight  of  Lookout. 
Go  where  you  will  within  all  this  horizon,  yet,  turning 
southward,  there  frowns  the  mountain.  It  rises  like  an 
everlasting  thunder-storm  that  will  never  pass  over. 
Satan  might  have  offered  the  kingdoms  of  the  world 
from  that  summit.  Seen  dimly  through  the  mist,  it 
looms  up  with  its  two  thousand  feet  and  recedes,  but 
when  the  sun  shines  strongly  out  it  draws  so  near  as  to 
startle  you,  and  you  feel  as  if  you  were  beneath  the 
eaves  of  a  roof  whence  drips  an  iron  rain.  And  yet, 
from  the  spot  where  we  stand,  it  is  three  miles  to  its 
summit,  three  miles  to  Mission  Ridge,  and  three  miles 
to  Moccasin  Point. 

But  your  eyes  are  not  weary,  and  so  they  follow 
down  the  faltering  line  of  Lookout,  dip  into  the  gate 
way  of  the  Tennessee,  and  rise  again  to  a  red  ridge, 
that  seems  to  you,  where  you  stand,  like  a  vast  tumulus 
big  with  the  dead  of  an  elder  time.  From  it,  even 
while  you  look,  comes  the  Federal  "  good  morning " 
back  again.  You  hear  the  gun  as  it  utters  the  shell, 
and  then,  traveling  after  it,  the  crash  of  the  iron  egg  as 
it  hatches  on  Lookout.  That  red  ridge  is  Moccasin 
Point,  whose  sharp  talk  is  a  proverb.  Glancing  north 
ward  up  the  western  horizon,  is  Raccoon  Range,  and 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  21 

upon  a  peak  of  it,  just  opposite  and  west  of  us,  is  a 
Federal  signal-station.  Then  away  to  the  northwest 
and  across  the  north,  the  mountain-edges  trace  the 
line  of  beauty,  curving  and  blending  until  the  graceful 
profile  of  the  horizon  is  complete.  But  within  this 
sweep  of  grandeur  lies  a  thing  whose  name  shall  endure 
when  yours  and  mine  have  been  effaced  by  Time,  like  a 
writing  upon  a  slate  by  a  wet  finger — CHATTANOOGA. 
Once  a  town  with  one  main  business  street  to  give  it  a 
little  commercial  pulsation  ;  residences,  some  of  them 
beautiful,  a  few  of  them  stately,  sprinkled  all  around 
upon  the  acclivities,  interspersed  with  more  structures 
built  up  in  the  true  Southern  architecture,  holes  in  the 
middle,  or  balconies,  or  the  chimneys  turned  out  of 
doors.  A  stinted,  rusty-looking  market-house  subdued 
beneath  a  chuckle-headed  belfry,  four  or  five  churches 
of  indifferent  fashion,  two  or  three  hotels  whose  enter 
tainment  has  departed  with  the  Boniface,  and  strag 
gling  tenements  "  of  low  degree  "  are  pretty  nearly  all 
that  remain.  As  you  pass  along  the  central  street,  the 
dingy  signs  of  old  dead  business  catch  the  eye.  Where 
"  A.  Baker,  attorney-at-law,"  once  uttered  oracles  and 
tobacco-juice,  Federal  stores  have  taken  Blackstone's 
place ;  where  ribbons  ran  smoothly  over  the  salesman's 
fingers,  boxes  of  hard-tack  are  piled,  like  Ossa  and 
Pelion  come  again.  Fences  have  gone  lightly  up  in 


22  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

camp-fires ;  tents  are  pitched  like  mushrooms  in  the 
flower-beds,  trees  have  turned  to  ashes,  shrubbery  is 
trampled  under  foot,  gardens  are  nothing  better  than 
mule-pens,  shot  and  shell  have  left  a  token  here  and 
there,  and,  across  the  whole,  War  has  scrawled  his  auto 
graph.  But  never  think  you  have  seen  the  town  at  one 
glance  ;  it  is  down  here  and  up  there  and  over  yonder ; 
the  little  hills  swell  beneath  it  like  billows ;  you  will 
gain  the  idea  if  I  say  it  is  a  town  gone  to  pieces  in  a 
heavy  sea. 

But  a  new  architecture  has  sprung  up  ; — slopes,  val 
leys,  hills,  as  far  as  you  can  see,  are  covered  with 
Federal  camps.  Smoky  cones,  grander  wall-tents,  nar 
row  streets  of  little  stone  and  board  kennels,  chinked 
with  mud  like  beavers'  houses,  snugly  tucked  into  the 
hill-sides,  and  equipped  with  bits  of  fire-places  that 
sometimes  aspire  to  the  dignity  of  marble,  are  every 
where.  It  i:;  nothing  but  camps,  and  then  more 
camps.  I  wrote  about  "dead  business,"  but  I  was  too 
fast.  It  is  all  business,  but  conducted  by  the  new  firm 
of  "  U.  S."  The  anvils  ring,  the  stores  are  filled, 
wagons  in  endless  lines  and  hurrying  crowds  throng  all 
the  streets,  but  the  workman  and  the  clerk  is  each  a 
boy  in  blue.  Chattanooga  is  as  populous  as  an  ant-hill. 
And  there  is  more  of  the  new  architecture :  breast 
works,  rifle-pits,  forts,  defenses  of  every  name,  crown 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  23 

the  slopes.  Here,  at  your  left  elbow,  is  Fort  Wood 
that  can  talk  to  Mission  Ridge :  and  there  are  Negley 
and  Palmer,  and  so  on  around  the  horizon.  And  then, 
as  if  they  had  been  poured  out  of  the  town  like  water, 
spreading  away  to  left  and  right  and  south,  as  you 
stand  facing  Lookout,  are  Federal  camps,  drifting  on 
almost  to  the  base  of  the  Mountain,  and  lying  bravely 
beneath  its  grim  shadow.  The  more  you  look,  the 
more  you  wonder  how  it  can  all  be.  It  overturns  your 
notions  of  hostile  armies,  this  neighborly  nearness. 
You  see  two  thin  picket-lines  running  parallel  and  a 
few  rods  apart — not  so  far  as  you  can  jerk  a  peach- 
stone.  They  pass  lovingly  together  from  your  left, 
down  Mission  Ridge,  curve  to  the  right  along  the  low 
lands  and  past  the  foot  of  the  great  mountain.  They 
are  the  line  of  blue  and  the  line  of  gray. 

And  just  there,  in  those  lowlands,  but  sloping  up  the 
side  of  Lookout,  lies  the  mass  of  the  enemy ;  then 
curving  away  to  the  east  and  north  it  lines  Mission 
Ridge,  thus  presenting  a  crescent  front  five  miles  in 
length,  and  throughout  all  we  are  snug  up  to  them, 
breast  to  breast.  What  effect  do  you  think  it  would 
have  upon  that  hostile  phase,  to  strike  it  near  its  north 
ern  horn  and  turn  it  back  on  Mission  Ridge  away  from 
its  railroad  communications,  and  strike  it  where  it  is 
wedged  into  the  foot  of  Lookout,  thus  doubling  it 
back  upon  itself  ? 


24  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

Signal-lights  are  features  in  celestial  scenery  that, 
like  the  jewels  in  the  Southern  Cross,  never  appear 
in  your  peaceful  Northern  skies.  Now,  had  the  reader 
who  has  stood  beside  me  all  the  morning,  been  out 
with  me  upon  the  hills  last  night,  he  would  have  seen, 
just  over  the  edge  of  the  highest  lift  of  Raccoon 
Range,  a  crazy  planet,  bigger  than  Venus  at  the  full, 
waltzing  after  a  mad  fashion  about  another  soberer 
light.  But  had  he  watched  it  for  a  while,  he  would 
have  discovered  there  was  "method  in  that  madness" 
after  all.  The  antic  light  describes  a  quadrant,  makes 
a  semi-circle,  stops,  rises,  falls,  sweeps  right,  sweeps  left, 
rounds  out  an  orbit,  strikes  off  at  a  tangent.  The 
Lieutenant  of  the  Signal  Corps  is  talking  to  somebody 
behind  Lookout.  Turning  towards  Mission  Ridge,  you 
would  have  seen  lights  of  evil  omen,  for  the  hostile 
signals  were  working  too ;  blazing,  disappearing,  show 
ing  here  and  there  and  yonder ;  now  on  the  Mountain, 
now  all  along  the  Ridge,  like  wills-of-the-wisp.  To 
day  the  army  telegraph  gesticulates  like  Roscius,  but  it 
is  flags  and  not  lights  that  have  gone  crazy,  and  so  the 
talk  goes  on  around  the  sky. 

At  ten  o'clock  this  morning,  you  were  standing  in 
front  of  Colonel  Sherman's  headquarters,  and  as  you 
looked  eastward  you  saw,  without  a  glass,  a  column  of 
the  enemy  moving  slowly  up  the  Ridge  and  a  wagon- 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  25 

train  creeping  on  after  it.  You  took  a  glass  and  held 
the  fellows  as  if  by  the  button-hole.  Just  then  a  roar 
from  Fort  Wood,  close  above  you,  and  a  long,  rushing, 
shivering  cry  quivers  through  the  air ;  the  shell  crosses 
the  intervals,  strikes  the  Ridge  at  the  heels  of  the  lazy 
column,  and  its  rate  of  motion  is  wonderfully  acceler 
ated.  No  steed  was  ever  more  obedient  to  the  touch 
of  the  rowels.  Again  the  "  Rodman  "  speaks,  and  down 
comes  the  carriage  of  an  angry  gun  for  kindling-wood. 
It  can  toss  its  compliments  as  lightly  over  to  Mission 
Ridge  as  you  can  toss  an  apple  over  the  orchard  fence. 
The  shriek  of  a  shell,  if  you  have  no  musketry  to  soften 
it,  is  terrible,  unearthly,  the  wail  of  a  lost  spirit.  A 
solid  shot  has  a  soberer  way  with  it,  is  attended  by  but 
one  syllable  of  loud  talk,  plunges  like  a  big  beetle  into 
the  earth,  and  there's  an  end  of  it ;  while  a  shell,  that 
does  its  duty,  has  thunder  and  a  cloud  at  both  ends  of 
its  line  of  flight.  There  goes  Fort  Wood  again.  Listen 
a  few  beats  of  the  pulse,  and  yonder,  well  up  the  side  of 
the  Ridge,  lies  a  fleece  of  smoke  that  was  not  there  an 
instant  ago,  and  here — bomb — comes  the  sound  of  the 
burning  missile.  A  shell  is  a  dissyllable. 

And  how  about  the  rebel  shells  from  Lookout,  that 
drop  now  and  then  into  town?  Well,  not  much — at 
least  not  yet.  Five  minutes  ago  the  gun  flung  a  shell 
over  the  mountain's  left  3houlder,  and  growled  at  its 


26  PICTURES    OF    LIFE-. 

brisk  neighbor  below,  on  Moccasin  Point,  or  at  our 
camps  on  its  other  side.  It  has,  indeed,  thrown  shell 
beyond  these  Headquarters  and  struck  a  house,  but 
they  are  plunging  shots  and  the  casualties  have  been 
few,  unless  a  fragment,  an  ounce  or  so  too  heavy  for 
your  hat,  may  hit  you  on  the  head.  They  have  gener 
ally  exploded  mid-air,  and  are  regarded  with  perfect 
indifference  by  the  boys.  If  one  of  them  is  laughing 
he  finishes  out  the  frolic ;  if  he  is  a  vicious  Yankee, 
and  whittling,  he  never  looks  up ;  if  he  is  singing  a 
stave  of  "  Rally  round  the  flag,  boys,"  he  does  not 
intermit  a  syllable  but  keeps  right  on.  The  unaffected 
indifference  to  this  description  of  heavy  rain  would,  I 
think,  set  you  wondering.  If  Braxton  Bragg,  our  neigh 
bor  over  the  way,  is  doing  his  best,  and  showing  us  all 
his  teeth  on  Lookout,  he  needs  a  repetition  of  what  old 
"Rough  and  Ready"  might  have  said  to  his  namesake, 
if  not  to  him,  a  long  time  ago:  "A  little  more  grape, 
Captain  Bragg!"  But  he  has  a  fashion  of  sending  a 
flag  occasionally,  with  the  injunction  to  remove  non- 
combatants  from  the  city,  as  he  is  going  to  shell.  He 
sent  such  word  again,  a  night  or  two  ago,  and  word  is 
pretty  much  all. 

We  get  direct  news  from  "  Dixie  "  daily.  A  Lieuten 
ant  and  a  couple  of  Sergeants  came  into  our  lines  last 
night.  The  first-named,  an  intelligent  young  man. 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  2/ 

stated  that  the  army  was  making  a  grand  move,  though 
he  did  not  know  its  meaning,  wherein  he  told  us  only 
what  we  knew  before,  by  the  sight  of  the  eyes.  An 
other  officer,  belonging  to  a  regiment  in  the  front,  came 
across  the  neutral  ground,  the  other  day,  and  while 
standing  with  our  picket  until  he  could  be  brought  in, 
actually  heard  them  calling  the  roll  of  his  company, 
and  when  his  name  was  reached,  cried  out,  "here !" 


THE  SMITING  OF  THE  SHIELD. 

MONDAY — TWENTY-THIRD. 

The  battle  has  been  given  and  won ;  the  dear  old 
flag  streams  like  a  meteor  from  the  craggy  crown  of 
Lookout  Mountain ;  Mission  Ridge  has  been  swept 
with  fire  and  steel  as  with  a  broom  ;  the  grim  crescent 
of  the  enemy,  curving  away  along  the  range,  from  the 
far  northeast,  south  to  the  base  of  Lookout,  has  been 
bent  back  upon  itself  and  crushed  like  a  buzzard's  egg; 
the  terrible  arc  of  iron,  five  miles  long,  that  bent  like  a 
quadrant  around  half  of  our  horizon,  is  broken  and 
scattered  ;  the  key  has  at  last  been  turned  in  the  Chat 
tanooga  lock ;  the  enemy  must  fly  from  East  Tennes 
see,  like  shadows  before  the  morning ;  the  Nashville 
and  Chattanooga  Railroad  is  once  more  true  to  its 
name ;  the  Tennessee  River  is  all  clear  to  its  landing ; 


28  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

our  communications  are  perfected  and  confirmed,  and 
to  the  Federal  army  Chattanooga  is  no  longer  the  end, 
but  the  beginning  of  things ;  the  step  put  forward  is 
not  to  be  withdrawn ;  our  eyes  may  now  be  lifted  and 
look  beyond  Chattanooga.  Thanks  be  to  GOD  and  the 
Boys  in  Blue ! 

I  sit  down  utterly  unequal  to  a  task  in  which  pride 
and  grief  are  strangely  blended  ;  and  yet,  in  an  instant, 
a  half-cheer,  exultant,  triumphant,  comes  to  my  lip, 
and  to-night,  under  this  cloudless  sky,  the  way  swept 
clean  to  Heaven  for  our  boys  going  there,  I  turn  to  the 
painted  emblem  that  blossomed  so  strangely  upon 
Lookout  at  break  of  day,  a  thousand  times  more  dear 
for  their  dear  sake  who  died,  and  say:  Oh,  Flag, 
that  would  make  us  bankrupt  but  that  thy  folds  are 
priceless ! 

Last  Friday  morning,  at  daylight,  the  battle  was  to 
begin.  Sherman's  splendid  columns,  moving  on  from 
Bridgeport  through  Shell  Mound  and  Whiteside  among 
the  hills  to  Brown's  Ferry,  crossing  in  the  night ;  then 
on  the  north  side  of  the  Tennessee  to  the  mouth  of 
Cilico  Creek,  and  there,  bridging  the  river,  and  having 
taken  position  upon  our  extreme  left,  five  miles  to  the 
northeast,  were  to  attain  Mission  Ridge  and  roll  the 
enemy  before  them.  At  the  same  moment,  Hooker, 
whose  camps  lay  along  the  western  side  of  the  moun- 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  29 

tain,  at  our  extreme  right,  was  to  make  a  demonstration 
upon  Lookout,  with  a  portion  of  the  Twelfth  Army 
Corps  and  a  Division  of  the  Fourth  ;  Granger  was  to 
swing  round  toward  Rossville,  with  the  Fourteenth 
Corps  at  his  right ;  and  Johnson,  commanding  Rous 
seau's  old  Division  of  the  Fourteenth  Corps,  and  How 
ard's  command  of  the  Eleventh,  were  to  hold  the  town 
and  act  as  reserves.  Thus,  our  completed  line,  reading, 
English  fashion,  from  left  to  right,  by  corps,  would  be 
Generals  Sherman,  Howard,  Granger,  Palmer,  Hooker. 
But  a  heavy  rain  setting  in,  the  terrible  roads  were 
rendered  almost  impassable,  and  Sherman,  with  his 
ponderous  trains  of  artillery,  struggled  on ;  but  Friday, 
Saturday,  Sunday,  and  Monday,  came  and  went,  and 
his  journey  was  undone.  General  Grant,  with  his  ster 
ling  sense,  had  ordered  a  body  of  cavalry  to  remove 
every  resident,  whether  friend  or  foe — General  Grant 
very  wisely  taking  nothing  for  granted — from  Sherman's 
route,  that  no  tidings  of  his  precise  destination  might 
reach  the  enemy.  But  the  delay,  at  once  so  unavoida 
ble  and  lamented,  marred  a  plan  that  was  masterly, 
being  nothing  less  than  to  strike  at  the  same  hour  the 
two  horns  of  the  lurid  crescent  and  double  it  back  upon 
itself.  It  was,  indeed,  a  gigantic  piece  of  mechanism, 
but  the  rain  came,  rusted,  if  I  may  say  so,  the  wheels 
on  their  axles,  and  the  mechanism  was  motionless. 


30  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

What  a  strange  problem  is  a  battle,  dependent,  some 
times,  upon  a  breath  of  wind  or  a  drop  of  water! 

Meanwhile  it  was  apparent  that  the  enemy  appre 
hended  coming  danger,  for  on  Sunday  morning  two 
divisions  moved  northward  along  Mission  Ridge  and 
took  position  on  his  extreme  right.  All  that  beautiful 
Sunday,  the  rebel  lines  were  restless ;  trains  were  mov 
ing,  brigades  passing  and  repassing,  like  the  sliding  pic 
tures  in  a  camera  obscura ;  there  was  "  a  fearful  looking 
for  '  of  coming  judgment.  All  that  beautiful  Sunday 
there  was  anxious  expectation  in  Chattanooga ;  field- 
glasses  were  everywhere  sweeping  the  mountains ;  I 
walked  through  the  camps  and  the  boys  were  a  shade 
less  merry  than  is  their  wont ;  the  hush  of  the  coming 
storm  was  in  the  air.  And  so  the  Sabbath  wore  away. 
Then  Federal  signals  flashed  from  hill  to  hill  along  the 
west,  like  "  the  writing  on  the  wall,"  and  through  the 
dusk  Howard's  columns  moved  like  deeper  shadows 
across  the  town.  All  night  long  I  heard  the  tramp  of 
the  men  and  the  hollow  rumbling  of  artillery,  and  as 
the  moon  came  up,  the  sentinels  looked  down  upon  it 
all,  like  sentries  from  a  tower.  Deserters,  both  officers 
and  men,  came  into  our  picket  lines  that  night ;  the 
enemy  was  astir ;  rations  had  been  issued  ;  baggage 
sent  to  the  rear ;  they  were  making  ready  for  business. 
Monday,  cloudy  and  dull,  dragged  through  its  morning. 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  31 

Let  me  show  you  a  landscape  that  shall  not  fade 
out  from  "  the  lidless  eye  of  time  "  long  after  we  are  all 
dead.  A  half-mile  from  the  eastern  border  of  Chatta 
nooga  is  a  long  swell  of  land  sparsely  sprinkled  with 
houses,  flecked  thickly  with  tents,  and  checkered  with 
two  or  three  grave-yards.  On  its  summit  stand  the  red 
earthworks  of  Fort  Wood,  with  its  great  guns  frowning 
from  the  angles.  Mounting  the  parapet  and  facing 
eastward  you  have  a  singular  panorama.  Away  to 
your  left  is  a  shining  elbow  of  the  Tennessee,  a  lowland 
of  woods,  a  long-drawn  valley,  glimpses  of  houses.  At 
your  right  you  have  wooded  undulations  with  clear 
intervals  extending  down  and  around  to  the  valley  at 
the  eastern  base  of  Lookout.  From  the  Fort  the 
smooth  ground  descends  rapidly  to  a  little  plain,  a  sort 
of  trough  in  the  sea,  then  a  fringe  of  oak  woods,  then 
an  acclivity,  sinking  down  to  a  second  fringe  of  woods, 
until  full  in  front  of  you  and  three-fourths  of  a  mile 
distant,  rises  Orchard  Knob,  a  conical  mound,  perhaps 
an  hundred  feet  high,  once  wooded,  but  now  bald. 
Then  ledges  of  rocks  and  narrow  breadths  of  timber, 
and  rolling  sweeps  of  open  ground,  for  two  miles  more, 
until  the  whole  rough  and  stormy  landscape  seems  to 
dash  against  Mission  Ridge,  three  miles  distant,  that 
lifts  like  a  sea-wall  eight  hundred  feet  high,  wooded, 
rocky,  precipitous,  wrinkled  with  ravines.  This  is,  in 


32  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

truth,  the  grand  feature  of  the  scene,  for  it  extends 
north  as  far  as  you  can  see,  with  fields  here  and  there 
cut  down  through  the  woods  to  the  ground,  and  lying 
on  the  hillsides  like  brown  linen  to  bleach  ;  and  you 
feel,  as  you  look  at  them,  as  if  they  are  in  danger  of 
slipping  down  the  Ridge  into  the  road  at  its  base. 
And  then  it  curves  to  the  southwest,  just  leaving  you 
a  way  out  between  it  and  Lookout  Mountain.  Alto 
gether  the  rough,  furrowed  landscape  looks  as  if  the 
Titans  had  plowed  and  forgotten  to  harrow  it.  The 
thinly  fringed  summit  of  the  Ridge  varies  in  width 
from  twenty  to  fifty  feet,  and  houses  looking  like  cigar- 
boxes  are  dotted  along  it.  On  the  top  of  that  wall  are 
rebels  and  batteries ;  below  the  first  pitch,  three  hun 
dred  feet  down,  are  more  rebels  and  batteries,  and  still 
below  are  their  camps  and  rifle-pits,  sweeping  five  miles. 
At  your  right,  and  in  the  rear,  is  Fort  Negley,  the  old 
"Star"  Fort  of  Confederate  regime;  its  next  neighbor 
is  Fort  King,  under  the  frowrn  of  Lookout ;  yet  to  the 
right  is  the  battery  of  Moccasin  Point.  Finish  out  the 
picture  on  either  hand  with  Federal  earthworks  and 
saucy  angles,  fancy  the  embankment  of  the  Charleston 
and  Memphis  Railroad  drawn  diagonally,  like  an  awk 
ward  score,  across  the  plain  far  at  your  feet,  and  I  think 
you  have  the  tremendous  Theatre,  and  now  what  next, 
if  not,  in  Hamlet's  words,  "  the  play's  the  thing !  " 


INCAMPANDFIELD.  33 

The  Federal  forces  lay  along  the  ridgy  slope  to  the 
right  and  left  of  Fort  Wood ;  the  enemy's  advance 
held  Orchard  Knob  in  force,  and  their  breastworks  and 
rifle-pits  seamed  the  landscape.  At  half-past  twelve 
o'clock,  Major-General  Granger  received  an  order  to 
make  a  reconnoissance  in  force  towards  the  base  of 
Mission  Ridge,  and  feel  the  enemy,  supposed  to  be 
massing  in  our  immediate  front  and  on  Lookout  Moun 
tain.  It  was  a  strange  scene.  There  was  to  be  no 
more  use  for  the  two  lines  of  pickets  that  for  so  many 
days  and  nights  had  stood  in  friendly  neighborhood, 
exchanged  the  jest  and  the  daily  news,  and  sat  at  each 
other's  fires.  Ours  were  to  be  recalled  ;  theirs  were  to 
be  thrust  back,  and  the  thin  veneering  of  battle's 
double  front  rudely  torn  away.  At  half-past  twelve 
the  order  came ;  at  one,  two  divisions  of  the  Fourth 
Corps  made  ready  to  move ;  at  ten  minutes  before  two, 
twenty-five  thousand  Federal  troops  were  in  line  of 
battle.  The  line  of  skirmishers  moved  lightly  out,  and 
swept  true  as  a  sword-blade  into  the  edge  of  the  field. 
You  should  have  seen  that  splendid  line,  two  miles 
long,  as  straight  and  unwavering  as  a  ray  of  light.  On 
they  went,  driving  in  the  pickets  before  them  ;  shots  of 
musketry,  like  the  first  great  drops  of  summer  rain 
upon  a  roof,  pattered  along  the  line.  One  fell  here, 
another  there,  but  still  like  joyous  heralds  before  a 


34  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

royal  progress,  the  skirmishers  passed  on.  From  wood 
and  rifle-pit,  from  rocky  ledge  and  mountain-top,  sixty- 
five  thousand  rebels  watched  these  couriers  bearing  the 
gift  of  battle  in  their  hands.  The  bugle  sounded  from 
Fort  Wood,  and  the  divisions  of  Wood  and  Sheridan 
began  to  move ;  the  latter,  out  from  the  right,  threat 
ened  a  heavy  attack ;  the  former,  forth  from  the  left, 
dashed  on  into  the  rough  road  of  the  battle.  Black 
rifle-pits  were  tipped  with  fire ;  sheets  of  flame  flashed 
out  of  the  woods ;  the  spatter  of  musketry  deepened 
into  volleys  and  rolled  like  muffled  drums ;  hostile  bat 
teries  opened  from  the  ledges ;  the  "  Rodmans  "  joined 
in  from  Fort  Wood  ;  bursting  shell  and  gusts  of  shrap 
nel  filled  the  air;  the  echoes  roused  up  and  growled 
back  from  the  mountains,  the  rattle  was  a  roar,  and  yet 
those  gallant  fellows  moved  steadily  on ;  down  the 
slope,  through  the  wood,  up  the  hills,  straight  for 
Orchard  Knob  as  the  crow  flies,  moved  that  glorious 
wall  of  blue. 

The  air  grew  dense  and  blue ;  the  gray  clouds  of 
smoke  surged  up  the  sides  of  the  valley.  It  was  a 
terrible  journey  they  were  making,  those  men  of  ours ; 
and  three-fourths  of  a  mile  in  sixty  minutes  was  splen 
did  progress.  They  neared  the  Knob  ;  the  enemy's  fire 
converged ;  the  arc  of  batteries  poured  in  upon  them 
lines  of  fire,  like  the  rays  they  call  a  "  glory"  about  the 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  35 

head  of  Madonna  and  the  Child,  but  they  went  up  the 
rugged  altar  of  Orchard  Knob  at  the  double-quick  with 
a  cheer ;  they  wrapped,  like  a  cloak,  round  an  Alabama 
regiment  that  defended  it,  and  swept  them  down  on 
our  side  of  the  mound.  Prisoners  had  begun  to  come 
in  before ;  they  streamed  across  the  field  like  files  of 
geese.  Then  on  for  a  second  altar,  Brush  Knob — nearly 
a  half-mile  to  the  northeast — and  bristling  with  a  bat 
tery  ;  it  was  swept  of  foes  and  garnished  with  Federal 
blue  in  thirty  minutes. 

The  Third  Division  of  the  Fourth  Corps  had  made 
a  splendid  march  ;  they  had  bent  our  line  outward  to 
the  enemy  like  Apollo's  bow,  and  so  Howard  at 
Wood's  right,  and  Sheridan  at  his  left,  swTung  out  to 
cut  new  swaths  and  leave  the  edges  even,  as  we  went 
right  through  this  harvest-field  of  splendid  valor  and 
heroic  death.  At  four  o'clock,  Granger's  headquarters 
were  on  Orchard  Knob,  and  the  cruel  storm  beat  on. 
On  the  left,  fronting  the  section  of  the  Eleventh  Corps 
led  by  General  Schurz,  was  a  range  of  rifle-pits  whence 
the  stubborn  enemy  were  not  driven,  and  the  General, 
whose  quick  eye  nothing  on  that  broad  field  escaped, 
ordered  two  brisk  twelve-pound  Parrotts  of  Bridges' 
Battery,  planted  upon  Orchard  Knob,  to  give  them  an 
enfilading  fire  where,  on  his  left,  the  ends  of  their  rifle- 
pits  showed  in  the  edge  of  the  wood  like  the  mouth  of 


36  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

a  wolf's  burrow.  You  should  have  seen  that  motley 
crew  climb  out  as  the  splendid  fire  swept  through,  and 
scurry  out  of  sight.  It  was  their  ditch,  indeed,  but 
they  were  not  quite  ready  to  die  in  it.  The  left  of  the 
Federal  line  not  advancing  to  occupy  the  work,  its  old 
tenants  crept  back  one  by  one,  and  lay  snug  as  ever. 
Thrice  did  Granger  sweep  the  rifle-pits,  and  General 
Beattie  was  ordered  round  with  three  regiments  to 
re-enforce  the  left,  and  the  line  came  squarely  up. 

At  four  o'clock  the  gallant  Hazen,  at  the  head  of  his 
brigade,  charged  the  rifle-pits  at  the  right  of  Orchard 
Knob,  up  the  hill,  carried  them  at  the  point  of  the 
bayonet,  and  swooped  up  three  hundred  prisoners. 
Here  Major  Buck  of  the  93d  Ohio  fell  mortally 
wounded,  and  the  93d  and  I2j.th  Ohio  lost  thirty  killed 
and  one  hundred  wounded.  While  the  terrible  play 
was  going  on  here,  there  was  neither  silence  nor 
inactivity  there.  Moccasin  Point  thundered  at  the 
camps  in  the  valley  at  the  south,  and  Lookout  growled 
at  the  Point,  Fort  King  uttered  a  word  on  its  own 
account,  and  Wood  laid  its  shells  about  where  it 
pleased,  their  little  rolls  of  smoke  lying  on  the  Ridge 
like  fleeces  of  wool. 

If  you  have  glance  or  thought  for  anything  but  the 
grand  action  of  the  drama,  you  can  see  the  signals 
fluttering  like  white  wings  from  Fort  Wood,  from  away 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  37 

to  the  left  of  the  line,  from  the  brow  of  Orchard  Knob, 
from  the  left  of  Raccoon  Range  across  the  town.  On 
the  summit  of  Mission  Ridge,  a  little  to  the  southeast 
of  Fort  Wood,  is  a  cluster  of  buildings ;  a  glass  will 
bring  them  so  near  that  you  can  discern  the  gray  horse 
ready  saddled  at  the  door.  You  are  looking  upon  the 
headquarters  of  Braxton  Bragg.  All  these  hours,  he 
has  been  watching  the  impetuous  surge  of  Federal 
gallantry  that  swept  his  smoky  legions  out  of  their 
rifle-pits,  off  from  their  vantage-ground,  over  the  swells, 
through  the  selvedge  of  woods,  into  their  rifle-pits  and 
behind  their  defenses. 

Listening  with  his  heart  to  all  the  tumult  of  that 
terrible  afternoon,  no  man  can  tell  how  three  little 
figures  can  truthfully  express  the  Federal  loss,  but  he 
must  believe  and  be  glad  when  I  tell  him  that  "  420  " 
are  those  figures.  The  enemy  must  keep  counting  on 
to  seven  hundred  before  his  bloody  roll  is  called. 

Of  the  heroic  coolness  of  our  army,  how  can  I  say 
enough?  Moving  against  thirty  thousand  men,  pos 
sessing  every  advantage  of  position,  defenses,  numbers 
engaged — everything,  indeed,  but  having  chosen  a  day 
of  battle — all  men  will  take  up  the  words  of  General 
Howard,  and  pass  them  round  the  land :  "  I  knew  that 
Western  men  would  fight  well,  but  I  did  not  know  that 
they  went  into  battle  and  stormed  strong  works  like 


38  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

men  on  dress  parade ! "  And  will  the  Illinois  reader 
who  has  faithfully  borne  me  company  look  over  the 
regiments  that  compose  that  splendid  corps  —  the 
Fourth — and  see  how  many  of  them  belong  to  him. 
All  through  the  brigades  of  Beattie  and  Willich,  Hazen 
and  Wagner,  Harkner  and  Colonel  Sherman,  he  will  find 
something  from  the  Prairie  State  that  will  make  true 
over  and  over  the  name  that  has  passed  from  a  perished 
race  of  kings,  and  set,  like  the  seal  of  the  covenant 
forever,  upon  a  broad  realm,  now  in  these  battle  years, 
to  be  worn  once  more  by  them  that  dwell  therein — 
ILLINI — we  are  MEN! 

The  battle  ends  with  the  ended  day,  the  command 
ing  General  is  in  the  center  of  his  new  front  far  out  in 
the  field  ;  the  pickets  assume  their  old  proximity  in  a 
new  neighborhood  ;  no  musket-shot  startles  the  silence, 
and  behind  the  fresh  breastworks  that  have  carried  the 
heavy  labors  of  soul  and  sinew  far  on  into  the  night, 
the  Federal  forces  sleep  upon  their  arms ;  to  dream, 
perchance,  of  fierce  assault  and  sweeping  triumph;  to 
wake,  perhaps,  to  a  half-reluctant  sense  of  another 
heavy  day  of  struggle  and  of  blood,  for  the  threshold 
of  approach  is  only  swept,  and  there  before  them 
waits  the  enemy. 


IN    CAMP    AND     FIELD.  39 

THE  CAPTURE  OF  LOOKOUT  MOUNTAIN. 

TUESDAY — TWENTY-FOURTH. 

I  am  looking  down  upon  three  boys  that  lie  side  by 
side  on  the  ground.  Three  bits  of  twine  bind  those 
willing  feet  of  theirs,  that  shall  never  again  move  at 
•'the  double-quick"  to  the  charge.  They  were  among 
the  heroes  of  Lookout  Mountain.  They  were  killed 
yesterday.  And  to-day — let  me  think  what  is  to-day. 
Away  there  at  the  North,  there  were  song  and  sermon  ; 
and  the  old  family  table,  that  had  been  drooping  in  the 
corner,  spread  its  wide  wings ;  and  the  children  came 
flocking  home  "like  doves  to  their  windows;"  and  the 
threshold  made  music  to  their  feet — alas,  for  the  three 
pairs  beside  me ! — and  the  welcome  went  round  the 
bright  hearth.  It  is  THANKSGIVING  to-day !  Let  the 
mothers  give  thanks,  if  they  can,  for  the  far-away  feet 
that  grew  beautiful  as  they  hastened  to  duty  and  halted 
in  death.  Even  while  the  heart  of  the  loyal  land  was 
lifted  in  a  psalm  for  the  blessings  it  had  numbered, 
another  was  winging  its  way  northward — the  tidings  of 
triumph  from  the  mountains  of  the  Cumberland ! 

Tuesday  broke  cold  and  cheerless ;  it  was  a  Scottish 
morning,  and  the  air  was  dim  with  mist.  I  crossed  t'he 
ground  over  which  our  boys  had  marched  so  grandly  on 


40  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

Monday  afternoon,  down  into  the  valley  of  death  and 
glory,  where  they  had  lain  all  night  in  line  of  battle. 
Brave  hearts  !  They  were  ready  and  eager  for  a  second 
day's  journey ;  they  had  put  their  hands  to  the  burning 
plowshare,  and  there  was  no  thought  of  looking  back. 
Beyond  them  lay  the  hostile  camps,  and  Mission  Ridge 
with  its  three  furrows  of  rifle-pits,  and  the  enemy 
swarming  like  gray  ants  on  the  hills.  You  would  have 
wondered,  as  I  did,  at  the  formidable  line  of  defense 
the  boys  had  thrown  up  when  they  came  to  a  halt,  and 
the  terrible  music  they  marched  to  had  died  out  with 
the  day.  Rocks  and  logs  had  been  piled  in  great  wind 
rows,  filled  in  with  earth,  and  could  have  withstood  a 
stout  assault.  There  had  been  a  great  deal  of  sneering 
among  the  Generals  who  "  shoulder  the  pen  and  show 
how  fields  are  won,"  about  fighting  with  shovels.  The 
man  fit  to  command  no  more  forgets  the  pickaxe  than 
he  forgets  the  powder.  The  Fourth  Corps  is  remarka 
ble  for  " making  ready"  before  it  takes  aim,  and  among 
the  Generals  I  may  name  Sheridan,  as  a  man  who  never 
marches  without  the  tools  and  never  halts  without 
intrenching.  Semper  paratus — always  prepared — is  the 
motto.  Such  men,  it  is,  among  the  Federal  chiefs,  that 
give  the  following  little  colloquy  its  point :  After  the 
battle  of  Chicamauga,  General  Johnston  of  Mississippi, 
thus  accosted  Bragg :  "  Having  beaten  the  enemy, 


IN    CAMP    AND     FIELD.  4! 

why  didn't  you  pursue  the  advantage?"  "Well," 
replied  Bragg,  "my  losses  were  heavy,  you  see,  and 
my  line  was  pretty  long,  and  by  the  time  I  could  get 
under  motion  the  —  -  Yankees  would  have  been  ten 
feet  under  ground  !  " 

A  splendid  compliment,  look  at  it  in  any  way  yov 
please,  and  competent  testimony  to  the  wisdom  of 
numbering  pickaxe  and  shovel  among  weapons  of  war. 

But  reader  and  writer  were  out  together  along  the 
lines  in  the  gray  of  the  morning.  Our  wicked  little 
battery  on  Orchard  Knob  had  "  ceased  from  troubling  ;" 
Fort  Wood  was  dumb,  and  not  a  voice  from  the 
"  Parrott "  perches  anywhere.  Stray  ambulances — those 
flying  hospitals — were  making  their  way  back  to  the 
town,  and  soldiers  were  digging  graves  on  the  hill-sides. 
Interrogation  points  glittered  in  men's  eyes  as  they 
turned  an  ear  to  the  northeast  and  listened  for  Sher 
man.  By  and  by  a  little  fleet  of  soldier-laden  pontoon 
boats  came  drifting  down  the  river,  and  I  hastened  to 
meet  them  as  they  landed.  The  boys  in  high  feather 
tumbled  out,  the  inevitable  coffee-kettle  swinging  from 
their  bayonets.  If  a  Federal  soldier  should  be  fellow- 
traveler  with  Bunyan's  Pilgrim,  I  almost  believe  that 
tin  kettle  of  his  would  be  heard  tinkling  after  him  to 
the  very  threshold  of  the  "Gate  Beautiful."  "Well, 
boys — what  now?"  "We've  put  down  the  pontoon — 


42  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

taken  nineteen  rebel  pickets  without  firing  a  gun — run 
the  rebel  blockade — drawn  a  shot — nobody  hurt — Sher 
man's  column  is  half  over — bully  for  Sherman  ! "  Those 
fellows  had  been  thirty  hours  without  rest,  and  were  as 
fresh-hearted  and  dashing  as  so  many  thorough-breds. 
They  had  wrought  all  night  long  with  their  lives  in 
their  hands,  and  not  a  trace  of  hardship  or  a  breath  of 
complaining.  The  heavy  drudgery  of  army  life,  with 
out  which  campaigns  could  never  bear  the  red  blossom 
of  battle,  seldom,  I  fancy,  elicits  the  thanks  of  com 
manding  Generals. 

Perhaps  it  was  eleven  o'clock  on  Tuesday  morning, 
when  the  rumble  of  artillery  came  in  gusts  from  the 
valley  to  the  west  of  Lookout.  Climbing  Signal  Hill, 
I  could  see  volumes  of  smoke  rolling  to  and  fro,  like 
clouds  from  a  boiling  caldron.  The  mad  surges  of 
tumult  lashed  the  hill  till  they  cried  aloud,  and  roared 
through  the  gorges  till  you  might  have  fancied  all  the 
thunders  of  a  long  summer  tumbled  into  that  Valley 
together.  And  yet  the  battle  was  unseen.  It  was  like 
hearing;  voices  from  the  under-world.  Meanwhile  it 

o 

began  to  rain ;  skirts  of  mist  trailed  over  the  woods 
and  swept  down  the  ravines,  but  our  men  trusted  in 
Providence,  kept  their  powder  dry  and  played  on.  It 
was  the  second  day  of  the  drama ;  it  was  the  second  act 
I  was  hearing;  it  was  the  touch  on  the  enemy's  left. 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  43 

The  assault  upon  Lookout  had  begun !  Glancing  at 
the  mighty  crest  crowned  with  a  precipice,  and  now 
hung  round  about,  three  hundred  feet  down,  with  a 
curtain  of  clouds,  my  heart  misgave  me.  It  could 
never  be  taken. 

But  let  me  step  aside  just  here  from  the  simple  story 
of  what  I  saw,  to  detail,  as  concisely  as  I  can,  Hooker's 
admirable  design.  His  force  consisted  of  two  brigades 
of  the  Fourth  Corps,  under  the  command  of  General 
Cruft,  General  Whittaker's  and  Colonel  Grose's — having 
in  them  five  Illinois  regiments,  the  59^n>  75th,  84th, 
96th,  and  H5th;  the  First  Division  of  the  Twelfth 
Corps  under  General  Geary,  and  Osterhaus  in  reserve. 
It  was  a  formidable  business  they  had  in  hand :  to 
carry  a  mountain  and  scale  a  precipice  near  two  thou 
sand  feet -high,  in  the  teeth  of  a  battery  and  the  face 
of  two  intrenched  brigades.  Hooker  ordered  Cruft  to 
move  directly  south  along  the  western  base  of  the 
mountain,  while  he  would  remain  in  the  valley  close 
under  Lookout,  and  make  a  grand  demonstration  with 
small-arms  and  artillery.  The  enemy,  roused  out  by 
all  this  "  sound  and  fury,"  were  to  come  forth  from 
their  camps  and  works,  high  up  the  western  side  of  the 
mountain,  and  descend  to  dispute  Hooker's  noisy  pas 
sage  ;  Cruft,  when  the  roar  behind  him  deepened  into 
"confusion  worse  confounded,"  was  to  turn  upon  his 


44  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

heel,  move  obliquely  up  the  mountain  upon  the  enemy's 
camps,  in  the  enemy's  rear,  wheel  round  the  monster, 
and  up  to  the  white  house  I  have  already  described, 
and  take  care  of  himself  while  he  took  Lookout. 

Hooker  thundered  and  the  enemy  came  down  like 
the  Assyrian,  while  Whittaker  on  the  right,  and  Colonel 
Ireland  of  Geary's  command  on  the  left,  having  moved 
out  from  Wauhatchie,  some  five  miles  from  the  moun 
tain,  at  five  in  the  morning,  pushed  up  to  Chattanooga 
Creek,  threw  over  it  a  bridge,  made  for  Lookout  Point, 
and  there  formed  the  right  under  the  shelf  of  the  moun 
tain,  the  left  resting  on  the  creek.  And  then  the  play 
began ;  the  enemy's  camps  were  seized,  his  pickets  sur 
prised  and  captured,  the  strong  works  on  the  Point 
taken,  and  the  Federal  front  moved  on.  Charging 
upon  him,  they  leaped  over  his  works  as  the  wicked 
twin  Roman  leaped  over  his  brother's  mud-wall,  the 
4Oth  Ohio  capturing  his  artillery  and  taking  a  Missis 
sippi  regiment,  and  gained  the  white  house.  And  there 
they  stood,  'twixt  heaven  and — Chattanooga.  But 
above  them,  grand  and  sullen,  lifted  the  precipice  ;  and 
they  were  men  and  not  eagles.  The  way  was  strown 
with  natural  fortifications,  and  from  behind  rocks  and 
trees  they  delivered  their  fire,  contesting  inch  by  inch 
the  upward  way.  The  sound  of  the  battle  rose  and 
fell ;  now  fiercely  renewed,  and  now  dying  away.  And 


IN    CAMP    AND     FIELD.  45 

Hooker  thundered  on  in  the  valley,  and  the  echoes  of 
his  howitzers  bounded  about  the  mountains  like  volleys 
of  musketry.  That  curtain  of  cloud  was  hung  around 
the  mountain  by  the  GOD  of  battles — even  our  GOD. 
It  was  the  veil  of  the  temple  that  could  not  be  rent. 
A  captured  Colonel  declared  that  had  the  day  been 
clear,  their  sharpshooters  would  have  riddled  our  ad 
vance  like  pigeons,  and  left  the  command  without  a 
leader,  but  friend  and  foe  were  wrapped  in  a  seamless 
mantle,  and  two  hundred  will  cover  the  entire  Federal 
loss,  while  our  brave  mountaineers  strewed  Lookout 
with  four  hundred  dead,  and  captured  a  thousand 
prisoners. 

Our  entire  forces  bore  themselves  bravely;  not  a 
straggler  in  the  command,  they  all  came  splendidly  up 
to  the  work,  and  the  whole  affair  was  graced  with 
signal  instances  of  personal  valor.  Lieutenant  Smith, 
of  the  4Oth  Ohio,  leaped  over  the  works,  discharged  his 
revolver  six  times  like  the  ticking  of  a  clock,  seized  a 
sturdy  foe  by  the  hair,  and  gave  him  the  heel  of  the 
"Colt"  over  the  head.  Colonel  Ireland  was  slightly 
wounded,  and  Major  Acton,  of  the  4Oth  Ohio,  was  shot 
through  the  heart  while  leading  a  bayonet  charge. 

And  now  returning  to  my  point  of  observation,  I  was 
waiting  in  painful  suspense  to  see  what  should  come 
out  of  the  roaring  caldron  in  the  valley,  now  and  then, 


46  PICTURESOFLIFE 

I  confess,  casting  an  eye  up  to  the  big  gun  of  Look 
out,  lest  it  might  toss  something  my  way,  over  its  left 
shoulder,  I,  a  non-combatant  and  bearing  no  arms  but 
a  Faber's  pencil,  "  Number  2,"  when  something  was  born 
out  of  the  mist — I  cannot  better  convey  the  idea — 
and  appeared  on  the  shorn  side  of  the  mountain,  below 
and  to  the  west  of  the  white  house.  It  was  the  head 
of  the  Federal  column !  And  there  it  held,  as  if 
it  were  riveted  to  the  rock,  and  the  line  of  blue,  a  half 
mile  long,  swung  slowly  around  from  the  left  like  the 
index  of  a  mighty  dial,  and  swept  up  the  brown  face  of 
the  mountain.  The  bugles  of  this  city  of  camps  were 
sounding  high  noon,  when  in  two  parallel  columns  the 
troops  moved  up  the  mountain,  in  the  rear  of  the 
enemy's  rifle-pits,  which  they  swept  at  every  fire.  Ah, 
I  wish  you  had  been  here.  It  needed  no  glass  to  see 
it ;  it  was  only  just  beyond  your  hand.  And  there,  in 
the  center  of  the  columns,  fluttered  the  blessed  flag. 
"My  God!  what  flag  is  that?"  men  cried.  And  up 
steadily  it  moved.  I  could  think  of  nothing  but  a 
gallant  ship-of-the-line  grandly  lifting  upon  the  great 
billows  and  riding  out  the  storm.  It  was  a  scene  never 
to  fade  out.  Pride  and  pain  struggled  in  my  heart  for 
the  mastery,  but  faith  carried  the  day:  I  believed  in 
the  flag  and  took  courage.  Volleys  of  musketry  and 
crashes  of  cannon,  and  then  those  lulls  in  a  battle  even 


IN    CAMP    AND     FIELD.  47 

more  terrible  than  the  tempest.  At  four  o'clock  an  aid 
came  straight  down  the  mountain  into  the  city ;  the 
first  Federal  by  that  route  in  many  a  day.  Their 
ammunition  ran  low — they  wanted  powder  upon  the 
mountain !  He  had  been  two  hours  descending,  and 
how  much  longer  the  return  ! 

Night  was  closing  rapidly  in,  and  the  scene  \vas 
growing  sublime.  The  battery  at  Moccasin  Point  was 
sweeping  the  road  to  the  mountain.  The  brave  little 
fort  at  its  left  was  playing  like  a  heart  in  a  fever.  The 
cannon  upon  the  top  of  Lookout  were  pounding  away 
at  their  lowest  depression.  The  flash  of  the  guns  fairly 
burned  through  the  clouds ;  there  was  an  instant  of 
silence,  here,  there,  yonder,  and  the  tardy  thunder 
leaped  out  after  the  swift  light.  For  the  first  time, 
perhaps,  since  that  mountain  began  to  burn  beneath 
the  gold  and  crimson  sandals  of  the  sun,  it  was  in 
eclipse.  The  cloud  of  the  summit  and  the  smoke  of 
the  battle  had  met  half-way  and  mingled.  Here  was 
Chattanooga,  but  Lookout  had  vanished  !  It  was  Sinai 
over  again  with  its  thunderings  and  lightnings  and 
thick  darkness,  and  the  LORD  was  on  our  side.  Then 
the  storm  ceased,  and  occasional  dropping  shots  told 
off  the  evening  till  half-past  nine,  and  then  a  crashing 
volley  and  a  rebel  yell  and  a  desperate  charge.  It  was 
their  good-night  to  our  boys ;  good  night  to  the  moun- 


48  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

tain.  They  had  been  met  on  their  own  vantage 
ground  ;  they  had  been  driven  one  and  a  half  miles. 
The  Federal  foot  touched  the  hill,  indeed,  but  above 
still  towered  the  precipice. 

At   ten    o'clock,  a   growing   line  of   lights  glittered 
obliquely  across  the  breast  of   Lookout.     It  made  our 
eyes  dim  to  see   it.      It  was   the    Federal    autograph 
scored  along  the  mountain.     They  were  our  camp-fires. 
Our  wounded  lay  there  all  the  dreary  night  of  rain, 
unrepining   and    content.      Our   unharmed    heroes   lay 
there    upon    their   arms.      Our   dead    lay  there,   "  and 
surely  they  slept  well."     At  dawn,  Captain  Wilson  and 
fifteen  men  of  the  8th  Kentucky  crept  up  among  the 
rocky  clefts,  handing  their  guns  one  to  another — "  like 
them    that   gather   samphire  —  dreadful   trade  !  " —  and 
stood  at  length  upon  the  summit.     The  entire  regiment 
pushed    up    after    them,    formed    in    line,    threw    out 
skirmishers   and    advanced   five   miles   to    Summerton. 
Artillery  and  infantry  had  all  fled  in  the  night,  nor  left 
a  wreck  behind.     The  plan  was  opening  as  beautifully 
as  a  flower.     General  Sherman's  apprehended  approach 
upon    the    other   extremity   of    the    line    had    set    the 
enemy's  front  all  dressing  to  the  right.      Hardee,  of 
"  Tactics  "  memory,  who  had  been  upon  the  mountain, 
moved  round  the  line  on  Sunday,  leaving  two  brigades 
and  the  attraction  of  gravitation — to  wit,  the  precipice 


INCAMPANDFIELD.  49 

— to  hold  the  left,  yet  farther  depleted  by  the  splen 
did  march  already  made  upon  the  enemy's  center 
Then  GOD  let  down  a  fold  of  his  pavilion,  our  men 
were  heroes  and  the  work  was  done.  The  capture 
afforded  inexpressible  relief  to  the  army.  There  the 
enemy  had  looked  down  defiant,  sentries  pacing  our 
very  walls.  Every  angle  of  a  Federal  work,  every  gun, 
every  new  disposition  of  a  regiment,  was  as  legible  as 
a  page  of  an  open  book.  You  can  never  quite  know 
how  beautiful  was  that  cordon  of  lights  flung  like  a 
royal  order  across  the  breast  of  the  mountain. 

One  thing  more,  and  all  I  shall  try  to  give  you  of  the 
stirring  story  will  have  been  told.  Just  as  the  sun  was 
touching  up  the  old  Department  of  the  Cumberland, 
that  Captain  Wilson  and  his  fifteen  men,  near  where 
the  gun  had  crouched  and  growled  at  all  the  land, 
waved  the  regimental  flag,  in  sight  of  Tennessee,  Ala 
bama,  Georgia,  the  old  '  North  State "  and  South 
Carolina — waved  it  there,  and  the  right  of  the  Federal 
front,  lying  far  beneath,  caught  a  glimpse  of  its  flutter, 
and  a  cheer  rose  to  the  top  of  the  mountain,  and  ran 
from  regiment  to  regiment  through  whole  brigades  and 
broad  divisions,  till  the  boys  away  round  in  the  face  of 
Mission  Ridge  passed  it  along  the  line  of  battle.  "  The 
sight  of  the  gridiron  did  my  soul  good,"  said  General 
Meigs.  'What  is  it?  Our  flag?  Did  I  help  put  it 


50  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

there?"   murmured   a  poor  wounded   fellow,  and  died 
without  the  sight. 

Oh,  glimpse  of  clear  heaven, 

Artillery  riven  ! 
The  Fathers'  old  fallow  GOD  seeded  with  Stars— 

Thy  furrows  were  turning 

When  plowshares  were  burning, 
And  the  half  of  each  "bout"  is  redder  than  Mars  ! 

Flaunt  forever  thy  story, 

Oh,  wardrobe  of  glory  ! 
Where  the  Fathers  laid  down  their  mantles  of  blue, 

And  challenged  the  ages, 

— Oh,  grandest  of  gages  ! — 
In  covenant  solemn,  eternal  and  true  ! 

Oh,  Flag  glory-rifted  ! 

To-day  thunder-drifted, 
Like  a  flower  of  strange  grace  upon  LOOKOUT'S  grim  surge, 

On  some  Federal  fold 

A  new  tale  shall  be  told, 
And  the  record  immortal  emblazon  thy  verge  ! 

And  so  at  Wednesday's  dawn,  ended  the  second  act 
of  the  drama  of  Mission  Ridge — Wednesday  whose 
sun  should  set  upon  the  third,  the  grandest  and  the 
last. 


JIN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  $1 

THE  STORMING   OF  MISSION  RIDGE. 

WEDNESDAY — TWENTY-FIFTH. 

The  stars  and  stripes  floated  from  Lookout  on 
Wednesday  at  sunrise.  At  twelve  on  that  day,  some 
thing  with  the  cry  of  a  loon  was  making  its  way  up  the 
river.  Screaming  through  the  mountains,  it  emerged 
at  last  into  Chattanooga,  and  its  looks  were  a  match 
for  its  lungs — an  ugly  little  craft  more  like  a  backwoods 
cabin  adrift  than  a  steamer,  it  was  the  sweetest-voiced 
and  prettiest  piece  of  naval  architecture  that  ever 
floated  upon  the  Tennessee.  The  flag  on  the  crest  and 
the  boat  on  the  stream  were  parts  of  the  same  story : 
first,  the  fight  on  the  mountain  ;  then,  the  boat  on  the 
river.  Never  did  result  crowd  more  closely  on  the 
heels  of  action.  When  the  thunder  began  to  roll 
around  Lookout,  the  boys  in  line  before  Mission  Ridge 
cried  out :  "  Old  Hooker  is  opening  the  cracker  line  !  " 
And  when  the  next  noon  they  heard  the  shriek  of  the 
steamer,  they  laughingly  said,  "  The  cracker  line  is 
opened !  "  and  went  straight  into  the  fight  with  a  will. 
They  have  a  direct  way  of  "  putting  things "  in  the 
army. 

I  do. not  think  that  going  about  Chattanooga,  last 
Wednesday  morning,  you  would  have  discerned  an 


52  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

impending  battle.  The  current  of  regular  business  was 
not  checked  ;  the  play  of  men's  little  passions  was  as 
lively  as  ever.  Jest  and  laughter  eddied  round  the 
street  corners,  and  pepper-and-salt  groups  of  children 
frolicked  in  sunny  places.  But  there  were  signs  of 
heavy  weather.  The  doors  of  the  ordnance  depots 
swung  open,  the  sentinels  stood  aside,  and  ammunition 
was  passing  out.  You  could  see  "  canvas-backed " 
wagons  working  their  way  out  of  town  to  the  east 
ward,  apparently  but  little  in  them,  and  yet  laboring 
beneath  their  freight.  Grape  and  canister  and  shot 
and  shell  make  heavy  loads  as  well  as  heavy  hearts. 
A  building  here  and  there  is  cleared  and  strangely 
furnished  with  long  rows  of  pallets.  Ambulances  set 
forth,  one  after  another ;  they  are  all  going  one  way ; 
they  are  bound  for  the  valley  of  Mission  Ridge.  And 
if  all  this  should  fail  to  set  you  thinking,  yet  there  are 
things  that  may,  perhaps,  disturb  the  steady  stroke  of 
an  easy-going  heart.  Sitting  with  me,  last  Tuesday 
night,  you  would  have  heard  such  talk  as  this.  A 
chief-of-staff  is  speaking :  "  Jemmy,  here  is  a  package 
of  money  I'll  leave  with  you  till  I  come  back."  "Lend 
me  your  watch,"  said  a  dashing  young  Major  to  a 
comrade,  "and  here's  a  hundred  dollars  if  I  should 
forget  to  return  it  to-morrow  night,  you  know,'  and 
the  officer  swallowed  a  little  memory  of  something  and 


IN    CAMP    AND     FIELD.  53 

went  out.  You  part  the  folds  of  tent  after  tent; 
writing  letters  here,  burning  letters  there,  getting  ready 
for  the  longest  of  all  journeys  that  yet  can  be  made  in 
a  minute.  "Well,"  said  an  officer  that  night,  "I  shall 
be  in  the  hottest  place  in  the  field  to-morrow,  but  do 
you  know? — the  bullet  is  not  run  that  will  kill  me/' 
and  the  gallant  fellow  dropped  off  into  a  child-like 
sleep,  while  I  lay  awake  and  was  troubled.  And  he 
told  the  truth — the  bullet  was  not  moulded — for  a  little 
after  four  the  next  afternoon,  a  bursting  shell  carried 
away  the  •'  pound  of  flesh  "  that  Shylock  craved,  and 
again  he  fell  asleep,  in  the  arms  of  the  All-Father. 
Good  night ! 

If  seeing  for  one's  self  is  an  art,  seeing  for  another  is 
a  mystery,  requiring,  I  mistrust,  a  better  pair  of  eyes 
than  mine.  But  if  my  readers  will  accept  a  straight 
forward,  simple  story  of  what  one  man  saw  of  Wednes 
day's  work,  as  bare  of  embellishment  as  the  bayonets 
that  glittered  to  the  charge,  here  it  is.  You  are  stand 
ing  again  on  Orchard  Knob,  the  center  of  our  line  of 
advance;  Mission  Ridge  is  before;  Fort* Wood  behind; 
the  shining  elbow  of  the  Tennessee  to  the  left ;  Look 
out  to  the  right.  Never  was  theatre  more  magnificent. 
Never  was  drama  worthier  of  such  surroundings. 

The  same  grand  heroic  line  of  battle,  but  a  little 
longer  and  stronger,  silently  stretches  away  on  either 


54  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

hand.  Breaking  it  up  into  syllables  and  reading  from 
left  to  right,  you  have  Howard's  Eleventh  Corps; 
Baird's  division  of  the  Fourteenth  Corps,  with  the 
brigades  of  Turchin,  Vandevere,  and  Croxton  ;  Wood's 
division  of  the  Fourth  Corps,  with  the  brigades  of 
Beattie,  Willich  and  Hazen ;  Sheridan's  division,  with 
the  brigades  of  Wagner,  Sherman  and  Harker ;  King's 
brigade  of  regulars,  and  Johnson's  division  of  the 
Fourteenth  Corps.  And  then,  at  the  tips  of  the  wings, 
on  farthest  left  and  right,  are  Sherman  and  Hooker. 
That  portion  of  the  line  distinct  from  where  you  stand 
—how  rich  the  homes  of  Illinois  have  made  it !  The 
24th,  iO4th — and  yonder  the  old,  dashing  ipth — the 
25th,  33d,  Sgth,  looth,  22d,  2/th,  42d,  5ist,  79th,  36th, 
88th,  74th,  44th,  and  73d — each  with  its  tale  of  battle, 
its  roll  of  honor  and  its  glorious  dead — how  glows  the 
glittering  line !  Illinois  was  on  Lookout  yesterday ; 
Illinois  is  over  there  with  Sherman  to-day.  GOD  bless 
the  mother — GOD  save  the  sons ! 

Imagine  a  chain  of  Federal  forts,  built  in  between 
with  walls  of  living  men,  the  line  flung  northward  out 
of  sight,  and  southward  beyond  Lookout.  Imagine  a 
chain  of  mountains  crowned  with  batteries  and  manned 
with  hostile  troops  through  a  six-mile  sweep,  set  over 
against  us  in  plain  sight,  and  you  have  the  two  fronts — 
the  blue,  the  gray.  Imagine  the  center  of  our  line 


IN    CAMP    AND     FIELD.  55 

pushed  out  a  mile  and  a  half  towards  Mission  Ridge— 
the  boss,  a  full  mile  broad,  of  a  mighty  shield — and 
you  have  the  situation  as  it  was  on  Wednesday 
morning,  at  sunrise. 

The  iron  heart  of  Sherman's  column  began  to  be 
audible,  like  the  fall  of  great  trees  in  the  depth  of  the 
forest,  as  it  beat  beyond  the  woods  on  the  extreme  left. 
Over  roads  indescribable,  and  conquering  lions  of  diffi 
culties  that  met  him  all  the  way,  he  had  at  length 
arrived  with  his  command  of  the  Army  of  the  Ten 
nessee.  The  roar  of  his  guns  was  like  the  striking  of 
a  great  clock,  and  grew  nearer  and  louder,  as  the  morn 
ing  wore  away.  Along  the  center  all  was  still.  Our 
men  lay,  as  they  had  lain  since  Tuesday  night,  motion 
less  behind  the  works.  Generals  Grant,  Thomas,  Gran 
ger,  Meigs,  Hunter,  Reynolds,  were  grouped  at  Orchard 
Knob,  here ;  Bragg,  Breckenridge,  Hardee,  Stevens, 
Cleburn,  Bates,  Walker,  were  waiting  on  Mission  Ridge, 
yonder.  And  Sherman's  Northern  clock  tolled  on  !  At 
noon,  a  pair  of  steamers,  screaming  in  the  river  across 
the  town,  telling  over,  in  their  own  wild  way,  our  moun 
tain  triumph  on  the  right,  strangely  pierced  the  hushed 
breath  of  air  between  the  two  lines  of  battle  with  a 
note  or  two  of  the  music  of  peaceful  life. 

At  one  o'clock,  the  signal-flag  at  Fort  Wood  was 
a-flutter.  Scanning  the  horizon,  another  flag,  glancing 


56  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

like  a  lady's  handkerchief,  showed  white  across  a  field 
lying  high  and  dry  upon  the  ridge  three  miles  to  the 
northeast,  and  answered  back.  The  center  and  Sher 
man's  corps  had  spoken.  As  the  hour  went  by,  all 
semblance  to  falling  tree  and  tolling  clock  had  van 
ished  ;  it  was  a  rattling  roar ;  the  ring  of  Sherman's 
iron  knuckles  knocking  at  the  northern  door  of  Mission 
Ridge  for  entrance.  Moving  nearer  the  river,  I  could 
see  the  breath  of  Sherman's  panting  artillery,  and  the 
fiery  gust  from  the  enemy's  guns  on  Tunnel  Hill,  the 
point  of  Mission  Ridge.  They  had  massed  there  the 
corps  of  Hardee  and  Buckner,  as  upon  a  battlement, 
utterly  inaccessible,  save  by  one  steep,  narrow  way, 
commanded  by  their  guns.  A  thousand  men  could 
hold  it  against  a  host.  And  right  in  front  of  this  bold 
abutment  of  the  Ridge,  is  that  broad,  clear  field, 
skirted  by  woods.  Across  this  tremendous  threshold 
up  to  death's  door,  moved  Sherman's  column.  Twice 
it  advanced,  and  twice  I  saw  it  swept  back  in  bleeding 
lines  before  the  furnace-blast,  until  that  russet  field 
seemed  some  strange  page  ruled  thick  with  blue  and 
red.  Bright  valor  was  in  vain  ;  they  lacked  the  ground 
to  stand  on  ;  they  wanted,  like  the  giant  of  old  story,  a 
touch  of  earth  to  make  them  strong.  It  was  the  devil's 
own  corner.  Before  them  was  a  lane,  whose  upper  end 
the  rebel  cannon  swallowed.  Moving  by  the  right 


IN    CAMP    AND     FIELD.  57 

flank  or  the  left  flank,  nature  opposed  them  with  pre 
cipitous  heights.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  straight 
across  the  field  swept  by  an  enfilading  fire,  and  up  to 
the  lane  down  which  drove  the  storm.  They  could 
unfold  no  broad  front,  and  so  the  losses  were  less  than 
seven  hundred,  that  must  otherwise  have  swelled  to 
thousands.  The  musketry  fire  was  delivered  with  ter 
rible  emphasis ;  two  dwellings,  in  one  of  which  Federal 
wounded  were  lying,  set  on  fire  by  the  enemy,  began  to 
send  up  tall  columns  of  smoke,  streaked  red  with 
flame ;  the  grand  and  the  terrible  were  blended. 

If  Sherman  did  not  roll  the  enemy  along  the  Ridge 
like  a  carpet,  at  least  he  rendered  splendid  service,  for 
he  held  a  huge  ganglion  of  the  foe  as  firmly  on  their 
right  as  if  he  had  them  in  the  vice  of  the  "  lame  Lem- 
nian"  who  forged  the  thunder-bolts.  And  Illinois  was 
there,  too,  with  her  veterans.  Under  General  M.  L. 
Smith  there  were  the  55th,  ii6th  and  12/th  ;  the  26th, 
4<Dth,  48th,  QOth  and  iO3d  led  on  by  General  Ewing;  in 
the  Seventeenth  Corps,  the  56th,  63d,  and  93d,  under 
General  John  E.  Smith  ;  the  82d  in  the  Eleventh,  under 
Schurz  ;  General  J.  C.  Davis,  of  the  Fourteenth,  com 
manded  the  loth,  1 6th,  6oth,  78th,  85th,  86th,  icist, 
noth,  I25th,  and  34th.  Such  was  the  magnificent 
material  from  the  Army  of  the  Tennessee  ;  but  I  thank 
GOD  that  not  a  tithe  could  be  called  into  action ;  the 


58  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

day  was  won  without  it.  General  Corse's,  Colonel 
Jones'  and  Colonel  Loomis'  brigades  led  the  way,  and 
were  drenched  with  blood.  Here,  Colonel  O'Meara,  of 
the  QOth  Illinois,  fell ;  here,  its  Lieutenant-Colonel, 
Stuart,  received  a  fearful  wound.  Here,  its  brave 
young  Captains  knelt  at  the  crimson  shrine,  and  never 
rose  from  worshiping.  Here,  one  hundred  and  sixty 
of  its  three  hundred  and  seventy  heroes  were  beaten 
with  the  bloody  rain.  The  brigades  of  Generals 
Mathias  and  Smith  came  gallantly  up  to  the  work. 
Fairly  blown  out  of  the  enemy's  guns,  and  scorched 
with  flame,  they  were  swept  down  the  hill  only  to 
stand  fast  for  a  new  assault.  Let  no  man  dare  to  say 
they  did  not  acquit  themselves  well  and  nobly.  To 
living  and  dead  in  the  commands  of  Sherman  and 
Howard  who  struck  a  blow  that  day — out  of  my  heart 
I  utter  it — hail  and  farewell!  And  as  I  think  it  all 
over,  glancing  again  along  that  grand  heroic  line  of  the 
Federal  Epic — I  commit  the  story  with  a  child-like 
faith  to  History,  sure  that  when  she  gives  her  clear, 
calm  record  of  that  day's  famous  work,  standing  like 
Ruth  among  the  reapers  in  the  fields  that  feed  the 
world,  she  will  declare  the  grandest  staple  "of  the 
Northwest  is  MAN ! 

The  brief  November  afternoon  was  half  gone  ;  it  was 
yet  thundering  on  the  left;    along  the   center  all  was 


INCAMPANDFIELD.  59 

still.  At  that  very  hour,  Whittaker  and  Grose,  under 
the  immediate  command  of  General  Crufts,  were  mak 
ing  a  fierce  assault  upon  the  enemy's  left  near  Ross- 
ville,  four  miles  down  towards  the  old  field  of  Chica- 
mauga.  They  carried  the  Ridge  ;  Mission  Ridge  seems 
everywhere ;  they  strewed  its  summit  with  the  dead ; 
they  held  it,  the  5ist  Ohio,  Lieutenant-Colonel  Wood, 
playing  a  part  of  which  the  "  Old  Guard  "  in  the  little 
Corsican's  palmy  days  might  well  be  proud.  And  thus 
the  tips  of  the  Federal  army's  wide-spread  wings 
flapped  grandly.  But  it  had  not  swooped  ;  the  gray 
quarry  yet  perched  upon  Mission  Ridge ;  the  hostile 
army  was  terribly  battered  at  the  edges,  but  there  full 
in  our  front  it  grimly  waited,  biding  out  its  time.  If 
the  horns  of  the  crescent  could  not  be  doubled  crush- 
ingly  together  in  a  shapeless  mass,  possibly  it  might  be 
sundered  at  its  center  and  tumbled  in  fragments  over 
the  other  side  of  Mission  Ridge.  Sherman  was  ham 
mering  upon  the  left ;  Hooker  was  holding  hard  in 
Chattanooga  Valley ;  the  Fourth  Corps,  that  rounded 
out  our  center,  grew  impatient  of  restraint ;  the  day 
was  waning ;  but  little  time  remained  to  complete  the 
commanding  General's  grand  design ;  his  hour  had 
come  ;  his  work  was  full  before  him. 

And  what  a  work  that  was,  to  make   a  weak  man 
falter  and  a  brave  man  think !     One  and  a  half  miles 


60  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

to  traverse,  with  narrow  fringes  of  woods,  rough  val 
leys,  sweeps  of  open  fields,  rocky  acclivities,  to  the 
base  of  the  Ridge,  and  no  foot  in  all  the  breadth 
withdrawn  from  rebel  sight ;  no  foot  that  could  not  be 
played  upon  by  rebel  cannon,  like  a  piano's  keys, 
under  Thalberg's  stormy  fingers.  The  base  attained, 
what  then?  A  heavy  work,  packed  with  the  enemy, 
rimming  it  like  a  battlement.  That  work  carried,  and 
what  then  ?  A  hill  struggling  up  out  of  the  valley  four 
hundred  feet,  rained  on  by  bullets,  swept  by  shot  and 
shell ;  another  line  of  works  and  then,  up  like  a  Gothic 
roof,  rough  with  rocks,  a-wreck  with  fallen  trees,  four 
hundred  more ;  another  ring  of  fire  and  iron,  and  then 
the  crest  and  then  the  enemy. 

To  dream  of  such  a  journey  would  be  madness ;  to 
devise  it  a  thing  incredible  ;  to  do  it  a  deed  impossible. 
But  Grant  was  guilty  of  them  all,  and  was  equal  to  the 
work.  The  story  of  the  battle  of  Mission  Ridge  is 
struck  with  immortality  already ;  let  the  leader  of  the 
Fourth  Corps  bear  it  company. 

That  the  center  yet  lies  along  its  silent  line  is  still 
true ;  in  five  minutes  it  will  be  the  wildest  fiction.  Let 
us  take  that  little  breath  of  grace  for  just  one  glance  at 
the  surroundings,  since  we  shall  have  neither  heart  nor 
eyes  for  it  again.  Did  ever  battle  have  so  vast  a  cloud 
of  witnesses !  The  hive-shaped  hills  have  swarmed. 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  6l 

Clustered  like  bees,  blackening  the  house-tops,  lining 
the  fortifications,  over  yonder  across  the  theatre,  in  the 
seats  with  the  Catilines — everywhere,  an  hundred 
thousand  beholders.  Their  souls  are  in  their  eyes. 
Not  a  murmur  that  you  can  hear.  It  is  the  most 
solemn  congregation  that  ever  stood  up  in  the  presence 
of  the  GOD  of  battles.  I  think  of  Bunker  Hill  as  I 
stand  here ;  of  the  thousands  who  witnessed  that 
immortal  struggle,  and  fancy  there  is  a  parallel.  I 
think,  too,  that  the  chair  of  every  man  of  them  all  will 
stand  vacant  against  the  wall  to-morrow,  —  for  to 
morrow  is  Thanksgiving, — and  around  the  fireside  they 
must  give  thanks  without  him,  if  they  can. 

At  half-past  three  a  group  of  Generals,  whose  names 
will  need  no  "  Old  Mortality "  to  chisel  them  anew, 
stood  upon  Orchard  Knob.  The  hero  of  Vicksburg 
was  there,  calm,  clear,  persistent,  far-seeing.  Thomas, 
the  sterling  and  sturdy;  Meigs,  Hunter,  Granger, 
Reynolds.  Clusters  of  humbler  mortals  were  there 
too,  but  it  was  anything  but  a  turbulent  crowd  ;  the 
voice  naturally  fell  into  a  subdued  tone,  and  even 
young  faces  took  on  the  gravity  of  later  years.  An 
order  was  given,  and  in  an  instant  the  Knob  was 
cleared  like  a  ship's  deck  for  action.  At  twenty 
minutes  of  four  Granger  stood  upon  the  parapet  by 
Bridges'  Battery ;  the  bugle  swung  idly  at  the  bugler's 


62  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

side,  the  warbling  fife  and  grumbling  drum  unheard : — 
there  was  to  be  louder  talk — six  guns  at  intervals  of 
two  seconds  the  signal  to  advance.  Strong  and  steady 
his  voice  rang  out :  "  Number  one,  fire  !  Number  two, 
fire !  Number  three,  fire !  " — it  seemed  to  me  the 
tolling  of  the  clock  of  destiny — and  when  at  "  Number 
six,  fire !  "  the  roar  throbbed  out  with  the  flash,  you 
should  have  seen  the  dead  line  that  had  been  lying 
behind  the  works  all  day,  all  night,  all  day  again,  come 
to  resurrection  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  leap  like  a 
blade  from  its  scabbard  and  sweep  with  a  two-mile 
stroke  toward  the  Ridge.  From  divisions  to  brigades, 
from  brigades  to  regiments,  the  order  ran.  A  minute, 
and  the  skirmishers  deploy ;  a  minute,  and  the  first 
great  drops  begin  to  patter  along  the  line ;  a  minute, 
and  the  musketry  is  in  full  play  like  the  crackling 
whips  of  a  hemlock  fire  ;  men  go  down  here  and  there, 
before  your  eyes ;  the  wind  lifts  the  smoke  and  drifts 
it  away  over  the  top  of  the  Ridge  ;  everything  is  too 
distinct;  it  is  fairly  palpable;  you  can  touch  it  with 
your  hand.  The  divisions  of  Wood  and  Sheridan  are 
wading  breast-deep  in  the  valley  of  death. 

I  never  can  tell  you  what  it  was  like.  They  pushed 
out,  leaving  nothing  behind  them.  There  was  no 
reservation  in  that  battle.  On  moves  the  line  of  skir 
mishers,  like  a  heavy  frown,  and  after  it,  at  quick  time, 


IN     CAMP    AND     FIELD.  63 

the  splendid  columns.  At  right  of  us  and  left  of  us 
and  front  of  us,  you  can  see  the  bayonets  glitter  in  the 
sun.  You  cannot  persuade  yourself  that  Bragg  was 
wrong,  a  day  or  two  ago,  when,  seeing  Hooker  moving 
in,  he  said,  "  now  we  shall  have  a  Potomac  review;" 
that  this  is  not  the  parade  he  prophesied  ;  that  it  is  of 
a  truth  the  harvest  of  death  to  which  they  go  down. 
And  so  through  the  fringe  of  woods  went  the  line. 
Now,  out  into  the  open  grO'ind  they  burst  into  the 
double-quick.  Shall  I  call  it  a  Sabbath  day's  journey, 
or  a  long  half  mile?  To  me,  that  watched,  it  seemed 
endless  as  eternity,  and  yet  they  made  it  in  thirty 
minutes.  The  tempest  that  now  broke  upon  their 
heads  was  terrible.  The  enemy's  fire  burst  out  of  the 
rifle-pits  from  base  to  summit  of  Mission  Ridge ;  five 
batteries  of  Parrotts  and  Napoleons  opened  along  the 
crest.  Grape  and  canister  and  shot  and  shell  sowed 
the  ground  with  rugged  iron  and  garnished  it  with  the 
wounded  and  the  dead.  But  steady  and  strong  our 
columns  moved  on. 

"  By  heaven  !     It  was  a  splendid  sight  to  see, 
For  one  who  had  no  friend,  no  brother  there," 

but  to  all  loyal  hearts,  alas,  and  thank  GOD,  those  men 
were  friend  and  brother,  both  in  one. 

And  over  their  heads,  as  they  went,  Forts  Wood  and 
Negley  struck  straight  out  like  mighty  pugilists  right 


64  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

and  left,  raining  their  iron  blows  upon  the  Ridge  from 
base  to  crest ;  Forts  Palmer  and  King  took  up  the 
quarrel,  and  Moccasin  Point  cracked  its  fiery  whips  and 
lashed  the  surly  left  till  the  wolf  cowered  in  its  corner 
with  a  growl.  Bridges'  Battery,  from  Orchard  Knob 
below,  thrust  its  ponderous  fists  in  the  face  of  the 
enemy,  and  planted  blows  at  will.  Our  artillery  was 
doing  splendid  service.  It  laid  its  shot  and  shell 
wherever  it  pleased.  Had  giants  carried  them  by  hand 
they  could  hardly  have  been  more  accurate.  All  along 
the  mountain's  side,  in  the  enemy's  rifle-pits,  on  the 
crest,  they  fairly  dotted  the  Ridge.  Granger  leaped 
down,  sighted  a  gun,  and  in  a  moment,  right  in  front, 
a  great  volume  of  smoke,  like  "  the  cloud  by  day," 
lifted  off  the  summit  from  among  the  batteries,  and 
hung  motionless,  kindling  in  the  sun.  The  shot  had 
struck  a  caisson  and  that  was  its  dying  breath.  In  five 
minutes  away  floated  another.  A  shell  went  crashing 
through  a  building  in  the  cluster  that  marked  Bragg's 
headquarters ;  a  second  killed  the  skeleton  horses  of  a 
battery  at  his  elbow ;  a  third  scattered  a  gray  mass  as 
if  it  had  been  a  wasp's  nest. 

And  all  the  while  our  lines  were  moving  on  ;  they 
had  burned  through  the  woods  and  swept  over  the 
rough  and  rolling  ground  like  a  prairie  fire.  Never 
halting,  never  faltering,  they  charged  up  to  the  first 


IN     CAMP    AND    FIELD.  65 

rifle-pits  with  a  cheer,  forked  out  the  foe  with  their 
bayonets,  and  lay  there  panting  for  breath.  If  the 
thunder  of  guns  had  been  terrible,  it  was  now  growing 
sublime ;  it  was  like  the  footfall  of  GOD  on  the  ledges 
of  cloud.  Our  forts  and  batteries  still  thrust  out  their 
mighty  arms  across  the  valley ;  the  guns  that  lined  the 
arc  of  the  crest  full  in  our  front,  opened  like  the  fan  of 
Lucifer  and  converged  their  fire.  It  was  rifles  and 
musketry ;  it  was  grape  and  canister ;  it  was  shell  and 
shrapnel.  Mission  Ridge  was  volcanic ;  a  thousand 
torrents  of  red  poured  over  its  brink  and  rushed 
together  to  its  base.  And  our  men  were  there,  halting 
for  breath !  And  still  the  sublime  diapason  rolled  on. 
Echoes  that  never  waked  before,  roared  out  from  height 
to  height,  and  called  from  the  far  ranges  of  Waldron's 
Ridge  to  Lookout.  As  for  Mission  Ridge,  it  had  jarred 
to  such  music  before  ;  it  was  the  "  sounding-board  "  of 
Chicamauga ;  it  was  behind  us  then ;  it  frowns  and 
flashes  in  our  faces  to-day.  The  old  Army  of  the 
Cumberland  was  there ;  it  breasted  the  storm  till  the 
storm  was  spent,  and  left  the  ground  it  held  ;  the  old 
Army  of  the  Cumberland  is  here !  It  shall  roll  up  the 
Ridge  like  a  surge  to  its  summit,  and  sweep  triumphant 
down  the  other  side.  That  memory  and  hope  may 
have  made  the  heart  of  many  a  blue-coat  beat  like  a 
drum.  "Beat,"  did  I  say?  The  feverish  heart  of  the 


66  PICTURES    OP'    LIFE 

battle  beats  on ;  fifty-eight  guns  a  minute,  by  the 
watch,  is  the  rate  of  its  terrible  throbbing.  That  hill, 
if  you  climb  it,  will  appal  you.  Furrowed  like  a 
summer-fallow, — bullets  as  if  an  oak  had  shed  them  ; 
trees  clipped  and  shorn,  leaf  and  limb,  as  with  the 
knife  of  some  heroic  gardener  pruning  back  for  richer 
fruit.  How  you  attain  the  summit,  weary  and  breath 
less,  I  wait  to  hear ;  how  they  went  up  in  the  teeth  of 
the  storm  no  man  can  tell ! 

And  all  this  while  prisoners  have  been  streaming  out 
from  the  rear  of  our  lines  like  the  tails  of  a  cloud  of 
kites.  Captured  and  disarmed,  they  needed  nobody  to 
set  them  going.  The  fire  of  their  own  comrades  was 
like  spurs  in  a  horse's  flanks,  and  amid  the  tempest  of 
their  own  brewing,  they  ran  for  dear  life,  until  they 
dropped  like  quails  into  the  Federal  rifle-pits  and  were 
safe.  But  our  gallant  legions  are  out  in  the  storm  ;  they 
have  carried  the  works  at  the  base  of  the  Ridge  ;  they 
have  fallen  like  leaves  in  winter  weather.  Blow,  dumb 
bugles ! 

Sound  the  recall !  "  Take  the  rifle-pit,"  was  the 
order,  and  it  is  as  empty  of  enemies  as  the  tombs 
of  the  prophets.  Shall  they  turn  their  backs  to  the 
blast  ?  Shall  they  sit  down  under  the  eaves  that  drip 
iron  ?  Or  shall  they  climb  to  the  cloud  of  death  above 
them,  and  pluck  out  its  lightnings  as  they  would  straws 
from  a  sheaf  of  wheat  ?  And  now  the  arc  of  fire  on 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  67 

the  crest  grows  fiercer  and  longer.  The  reconnoissance 
of  Monday  had  failed  to  develop  the  heavy  metal  of 
the  enemy.  The  dull  fringe  of  the  hill  kindles  with 
the  flash  of  great  guns.  I  count  the  fleeces  of  white 
smoke  that  dot  the  Ridge,  as  battery  after  battery 
opens  upon  our  line,  until  from  the  ends  of  the  growing 
arc  they  sweep  down  upon  it  in  mighty  X's  of  fire.  I 
count  till  that  devil's  girdle  numbers  thirteen  batteries, 
and  my  heart  cries  out:  "  Great  GOD,  when  shall  the 
end  be !  "  There  is  a  poem  I  learned  in  childhood,  and 
so  did  you  :  it  is  Campbell's  "  Hohenlinden."  One  line 
I  never  knew  the  meaning  of  until  I  read  it  written 
along  that  hill !  It  has  lighted  up  the  whole  poem  for 
me  with  the  glow  of  battle  forever : 

"  And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven, 
Far  flashed  the  red  artillery  !  " 

At  this  moment  the  commanding  General's  aids  are 
dashing  out  with  an  order ;  they  radiate  over  the  field 
to  left,  right  and  front :  "  Take  the  Ridge  if  you  can  " 
— and  so  it  went  along  the  line.  But  the  advance  had 
already  set  forth  without  it.  Stout-hearted  Wood,  the 
iron-gray  veteran,  is  rallying  on  his  men ;  stormy 
Turchin  is  delivering  brave  words  in  bad  English ; 
Sheridan — little  "  Phil  " — you  may  easily  look  down 
upon  him  without  climbing  a  tree,  and  see  one  of  the 
most  gallant  leaders  of  the  age  —is  riding  to  and  fro 


68  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

along  the  first  line  of  rifle-pits,  as  calmly  as  a  chess 
player.  An  aid  rides  up  with  the  order.  "  Avery,  that 
flask,"  said  the  General.  Quietly  filling  the  pewter 
cup,  Sheridan  looks  up  art  the  battery  that  frowns 
above  him,  by  Bragg's  headquarters,  shakes  his  cap 
amid  that  storm  of  everything  that  kills,  when  you 
could  hardly  hold  your  hand  without  catching  a  bullet 
in  it,  and  with  a  "  how  are  you  ?  "  tosses  off  the  cup. 
The  blue  battle-flag  of  the  enemy  fluttered  a  response 
to  the  cool  salute,  and  the  next  instant  the  battery  let 
fly  its  six  guns  showering  Sheridan  with  earth.  Allud 
ing  to  that  compliment  with  anything  but  a  blank 
cartridge,  the  General  said  in  his  quiet  way,  "  I  thought 
it  d — d  ungenerous !  "  The  recording  angel  will  drop  a 
tear  upon  the  word  for  the  part  he  played  that  day. 
Wheeling  toward  the  men,  he  cheered  them  to  the 
charge,  and  made  at  the  hill  like  a  bold-riding  hunter ; 
they  were  out  of  the  rifle-pits  and  into  the  tempest  and 
struggling  up  the  steep,  before  you  could  get  breath  to 
tell  it,  and  so  they  were  throughout  the  inspired  line. 
And  now  you  have  before  you  one  of  the  most 
startling  episodes  of  the  war;  I  cannot  render  it  in 
words ;  dictionaries  are  beggarly  things.  But  I  may 
tell  you  they  did  not  storm  that  mountain  as  you 
would  think.  They  dash  out  a  little  way,  and  then 
slacken ;  they  creep  up,  hand  over  hand,  loading  and 


IN    CAMP    AND     FIELD.  69 

firing,  and  wavering  and  halting,  from  the  first  line  of 
works  toward  the  second ;  they  burst  into  a  charge 
with  a  cheer  and  go  over  it.  Sheets  of  flame  baptize 
them ;  plunging  shot  tear  away  comrades  on  left  and 
right ;  it  is  no  longer  shoulder  to  shoulder ;  it  is  GOD 
for  us  all  ?  Under  tree-trunks,  among  rocks,  stumbling 
over  the  dead,  struggling  with  the  living ;  facing  the 
steady  fire  of  eight  thousand  infantry  poured  down 
upon  their  heads  as  if  it  were  the  old  historic  curse 
from  heaven,  they  wrestle  with  the  Ridge.  Ten, 
fifteen,  twenty  minutes  go  by  like  a  reluctant  century. 
The  batteries  roll  like  a  drum ;  between  the  second  and 
the  last  line  of  works  is  the  torrid  zone  of  the  battle  ; 
the  hill  sways  up  like  a  wall  before  them  at  an  angle  of 
forty-five  degrees,  but  our  brave  mountaineers  are 
clambering  steadily  on — up — upward  still !  You  may 
think  it  strange,  but  I  would  not  have  recalled  those 

o      ' 

men  if  I  could.  They  would  have  lifted  you,  as  they 
lifted  me,  in  full  view  of  the  region  of  heroic  grandeur ; 
they  seemed  to  be  spurning  the  dull  earth  under  their 
feet,  and  going  up  to  do  Homeric  battle  with  the 
greater  gods. 

And  what  do  these  men  follow?  If  you  look  you 
shall  see  that  the  thirteen  thousand  are  not  a  rushing 
herd  of  human  creatures ;  that  along  the  Gothic  roof 
of  the  Ridge  a  row  of  inverted  V's  is  slowly  moving  up 


70  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

almost  in  line,  a  mighty  lettering  on  the  hill's  broad 
side.  At  the  angles  of  those  V's  is  something  that 
glitters  like  a  wing.  Your  heart  gives  a  great  bound 
when  you  think  what  it  is — the  regimental  flag—znd 
glancing  along  the  front  count  fifteen  of  those  colors 
that  were  borne  at  Pea  Ridge,  waved  at  Shiloh,  glori 
fied  at  Stone  River,  riddled  at  Chicamauga.  Nobler 
than  Caesar  s  rent  mantle  are  they  all !  And  up  move 
the  banners,  now  fluttering  like  a  wounded  bird,  now 
faltering,  now  sinking  out  of  sight.  Three  times  the 
flag  of  the  2/th  Illinois  goes  down.  And  you  know 
why.  Three  dead  color-sergeants  lie  just  there,  but  the 
flag  is  immortal — thank  GOD  ! — and  up  it  comes  again, 
and  the  V's  move  on.  At  the  left  of  Wood,  three  regi 
ments  of  Baird — Turchin,  the  Russian  thunderbolt,  is 
there — hurl  themselves  against  a  bold  point  strong  with 
rebel  works ;  for  a  long  quarter  of  an  hour  three  flags 
are  perched  and  motionless  on  a  plateau  under  the 
frown  of  the  hill.  Will  they  linger  forever?  I  give  a 
look  at  the  sun  behind  me  ;  it  is  not  more  than  a  hand's 
breadth  from  the  edge  of  the  mountain ;  its  level  rays 
bridge  the  valley  from  Chattanooga  to  the  Ridge  with 
beams  of  gold  ;  it  shines  in  the  hostile  faces ;  it  brings 
out  the  Federal  blue ;  it  touches  up  the  flags.  Oh,  for 
the  voice  that  could  bid  that  sun  stand  still !  I  turn 
to  the  battle  again  ;  those  three  flags  have  taken  flight. 


~N    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  71 

They  are  upward  bound  !  The  men  of  the  88th  Illinois 
were  swept  by  an  enfilading  fire ;  Colonel  Chandler 
seized  the  colors ;  they  steadied  into  rock  and  swept 
the  enemy  before  them  with  a  broom  of  bayonets ;  it 
cost  them  fifty  of  the  rank  and  file  and  two  Lieu 
tenants.  Colonel  Jacques,  of  the  73d,  Barrett,  of  the 
44th,  Marsh,  of  the  74th,  Dunlap,  of  the  5 1st — who  the 
boys  delight  to  say  is  " fashionable  in  a  fight" — all 
wounded,  and  all  Illinois. 

The  race  of  the  flags  is  growing  every  moment  more 
terrible.  There  at  the  right,  in  Colonel  Sherman's 
brigade,  a  strange  thing  catches  the  eye ;  one  of  the 
inverted  V's  is  turning  right  side  up !  The  men  strug 
gling  along  the  converging  lines  to  overtake  the  flag 
have  distanced  it,  and  there  the  colors  are,  sinking 
down  in  the  center  between  the  rising  flanks.  The  line 
wavers  like  a  great  billow,  and  up  comes  the'  banner 
again,  as  if  it  heaved  on  a  surge's  shoulder !  The  iron 
sledges  beat  on.  Hearts,  loyal  and  brave,  are  on  the 
anvil  all  the  way  from  base  to  summit  of  Mission 
Ridge,  but  those  dreadful  hammers  never  intermit. 
Swarms  of  bullets  sweep  the  hill ;  you  can  count 
twenty-eight  balls  in  one  little  tree.  Things  are  grow 
ing  desperate  up  aloft ;  the  enemy  tumble  rocks  upon 
the  rising  line ;  they  light  the  fuses  and  roll  shells  down 
the  steep  ;  they  load  the  guns  with  handfuls  of  car- 


72  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

tridges  in  their  haste;  and  as  if  there  were  powder  in 
the  word,  they  shout  "  Chicamauga !  "  down  upon  the 
mountaineers.  But  it  would  not  all  do,  and  just  as  the 
sun,  weary  of  the  scene,  was  sinking  out  of  sight,  with 
magnificent  bursts  all  along  the  line,  exactly  as  you 
have  seen  the  crested  seas  leap  up  at  the  breakwater, 
the  advance  surged  over  the  crest,  and  in  a  minute 
those  flags  fluttered  along  the  fringe  where  fifty  guns 
were  kenneled.  GOD  bless  the  flag ! 

What  colors  were  first  upon  the  mountain  battlement 
I  dare  not  try  to  say ;  bright  Honor's  self  may  be 
proud  to  bear — bear  ? — nay,  proud  to  follow  the  hind 
most.  Foot  by  foot  they  had  fought  up  the  steep  slip 
pery  with  much  blood  ;  let  them  go  to  glory  together. 
But  this  I  can  declare :  the  79th  Indiana,  of  Wood's 
division,  fairly  ran  over  the  rifle-pits,  and  left  its  whole 
line  in  the  rear,  and  its  breathless  color-bearer  led  the 
way.  But  a  few  steps  between  him  and  the  summit,  he 
grasped  a  little  tree  that  bravely  clung  there,  and  away 
he  went,  hand  over  hand,  like  a  sailor  up  the  shrouds, 
and  shook  his  exultant  flag  above  the  crest.  This  I 
can  declare  :  John  Cheevers,  of  the  88th  Illinois,  planted 
his  flag  by  Bragg's  headquarters,  and  it  kindled  there 
in  the  setting  sun,  at  the  very  heels  of  the  enemy.  A 
minute,  and  they  were  all  there,  fluttering  along  the 
Ridge  from  left  to  right.  The  routed  hordes  rolled  off 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  73 

to  the  north,  rolled  off  to  the  east,  like  the  clouds  of  a 
worn-out  storm.  Bragg,  ten  minutes  before,  was  put 
ting  men  back  into  the  rifle-pits.  His  gallant  gray  was 
straining  a  nerve  for  him  now,  and  the  man  rode  on 
horseback  into  "  Dixie's  "  bosom,  who,  arrayed  in  some 
prophet's  discarded  mantle,  foretold,  on  Monday,  that 
the  Yankees  would  leave  Chattanooga  in  five  days. 
They  left  it  in  three,  and  by  the  way  of  Mission  Ridge, 
straight  over  the  mountains  as  their  forefathers  went ! 
As  Sheridan  rode  up  to  the  guns,  the  heels  of  Brecken- 
ridge's  horse  glittered  in  the  last  rays  of  sunshine. 
That  crest  was  hardly  "  well  off  with  the  old  love 
before  it  was  on  with  the  new." 

But  the  scene  on  that  narrow  plateau  can  never  be 
painted.  As  the  blue-coats  surged  over  its  edge,  cheer 
on  cheer  rang  like  bells  through  the  valley  of  the 
Chicamauga.  Men  flung  themselves  exhausted  upon 
the  ground.  They  laughed  and  wept,  shook  hands, 
embraced  ;  turned  round  and  did  all  four  over  again. 
It  was  as  wild  as  a  carnival.  The  General  was  received 
with  a  shout.  "  Soldiers,"  he  said,  "  you  ought  to  be 
court-martialed,  every  man  of  you.  I  ordered  you  to 
take  the  rifle-pits  and  you  scaled  the  mountain  !  "  but 
it  was  not  Mars'  horrid  front  exactly  with  which  he 
said  it,  for  his  cheeks  were  wet  with  tears  as  honest  as 
the  blood  that  reddened  all  the  route.  Wood  uttered 


74  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

words  that  rang  like  "  Napoleons,"  and  Sheridan,  the 
rowels  at  his  horse's  flanks,  was  ready  for  a  dash  down 
the  Ridge  with  a  "  view  halloo  "  for  a  fox  hunt. 

But  you  must  not  think  this  was  all  there  was  of  the 
scene  on  the  crest,  for  fight  and  frolic  were  strangely 
mingled.  Not  a  gray-coat  had  dreamed  a  man  of  us 
all  would  live  to  reach  the  summit,  and  when  a  little 
wave  of  the  Federal  cheer  rolled  up  and  broke  over  the 
crest,  they  defiantly  cried  :  "  hurrah  and  be  d — d  ;"  the 
next  minute  the  65th  Ohio  followed  the  voice,  the 
enemy  delivered  their  fire,  and  tumbled  down  in  the 
rifle-pits.  No  sooner  had  the  soldiers  scrambled  to  the 
Ridge  and  straightened  themselves,  than  up  muskets 
and  away  they  blazed.  One  of  them,  fairly  beside 
himself  between  laughing  and  crying,  seemed  puzzled 
at  which  end  of  his  piece  he  should  load,  and  so,  aban 
doning  the  gun  and  the  problem  together,  he  made  a 
catapult  of  himself  and  fell  to  hurling  stones  after  the 
enemy.  And  he  said,  as  he  threw — well,  "  our  army," 
you  know,  "  swore  terribly  in  Flanders."  Bayonets 
glinted  and  muskets  rattled.  Sheridan's  horse  was 
killed  under  him  ;  "  Richard  "  was  not  in  his  role,  and 
so  he  leaped  upon  a  rebel  gun  for  want  of  another. 
The  artillerists  are  driven  from  their  batteries  at  the 
edge  of  the  sword  and  the  point  of  the  bayonet ;  two 
guns  are  swung  around  upon  their  old  masters.  But 


IN    CAMP    AND     FIELD.  75 

there  is  nobody  to  load  them.  Light  and  heavy  artil 
lery  do  not  belong  to  the  winged  kingdom.  Two 
infantry  men  claiming  to  be  old  artillerists,  volunteer. 
Granger  turns  captain  of  the  guns,  and — right  about 
wheel ! — in  a  moment  they  are  growling  after  the  flying 
enemy.  I  say  flying,  but  that  is  figurative.  The  many 
run  like  Spanish  merinoes,  but  the  few  fight  like  lions 
at  bay ;  they  load  and  fire  as  they  retreat ;  they  are 
fairly  scorched  out  of  position.  It  was  so  where 
Turchin  struck  them,  and  so  where  Wood  and  Sheridan 
gave  them  the  iron  glove.  Colonel  Harker  is  slashing 
away  with  his  sabre  in  a  ring  of  foes.  Down  goes  his 
horse  under  him ;  they  have  him  on  the  hip ;  one  of 
them  is  taking  deliberate  aim,  when  up  rushes  Lieu 
tenant  Johnson,  of  the  42d  Illinois,  claps  a  pistol  to  one 
ear  and  roars  in  at  the  other,  "  Who  the  h — 1  are  you 
shooting  at  ?  "  The  fellow  drops  his  piece,  gasps  out, 
"  I  surrender,"  and  the  next  instant  the  gallant  Lieu 
tenant  falls  sharply  wounded.  He  is  a  "  roll  of  honor  " 
officer  straight  up  from  the  ranks.  A  little  German  in 
Wood's  division  is  pierced  like  the  lid  of  a  pepper-box, 
but  is  neither  dead  nor  wounded.  "  See  here,"  he  says, 
rushing  up  to  a  comrade,  "a  pullet  hit  te  preech  of 
mine  gun — a  pullet  in  mine  bocket  pook — a  pullet  in 
mine  goat-tail — dey  shoots  me  three,  five  dime,  and  by 
tarn  I  gives  dem  h — 1  yet !  " 


76  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

But  I  can  render  you  no  idea  of  the  battle  caldron 
that  boiled  on  the  plateau.  An  incident,  here  and 
there,  I  have  given  you,  and  you  must  fill  out  the 
picture  for  yourself.  Dead  soldiers  lay  thick  around 
Bragg's  headquarters  and  along  the  ridge.  Scabbards, 
broken  arms,  artillery  horses,  wrecks  of  gun  carriages, 
bloody  garments,  strewed  the  scene ;  and,  tread  lightly, 
oh,  true-hearted,  the  boys  in  blue  are  lying  there ;  no 
more  the  sounding  charge ;  no  more  the  brave  wild 
cheer ;  and  never  for  them,  sweet  as  the  breath  of  new- 
mown  hay  in  the  old  home  fields,  "  the  Soldier's  Return 
from  the  War."  A  little  waif  of  a  drummer  boy, 
somehow  drifted  up  the  mountain  in  the  surge,  lies 
there,  his  pale  face  upward,  a  blue  spot  on  his  breast. 
Muffle  his  drum  lor  the  poor  child  and  his  mother. 

Our  troops  met  one  cordial  welcome  on  the  height. 
How  the  old  Tennesseean  that  gave  it  managed  to  get 
there  nobody  knows,  but  there  he  was,  grasping  Colonel 
Barker's  hand,  and  saying,  while  the  tears  ran  down 
his  face,  "  GOD  be  thanked !  I  knew  the  Yankees 
would  fight ! "  With  the  receding  flight  and  swift 
pursuit  the  battle  died  away  in  murmurs,  far  down  the 
valley  of  the  Chicamauga ;  Sheridan  was  again  in  the 
saddle,  and  with  his  command  spurring  on  after  the 
enemy.  Tall  columns  of  smoke  were  rising  at  the  left. 
The  enemy  were  burning  a  train  of  stores  a  mile  long. 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  77 

In  the  exploding  caissons  we  had  "  the  cloud  by  day," 
and  now  we  were  having  "  the  pillar  of  fire  by  night." 
The  sun,  the  golden  dish  of  the  scales  that  balance  day 
and  night,  had  hardly  gone  down  when  up,  beyond 
Mission  Ridge,  rose  the  silver  side,  for  that  night  it  was 
full  moon.  The  troubled  day  was  done.  A  Federal 
officer  sat  in  the  seat  of  the  man  who,  on  the  very 
Saturday  before  the  battle,  had  sent  a  flag  to  the  lines 
with  these  words : 

"  Humanity  would  dictate  the  removal  of  all  non- 
combatants  from  Chattanooga,  as  I  am  about  to  shell 
the  city ! " 

— Sat  there  and  announced  to  the  Fourth  Corps  the 
congratulations  and  thanks  just  placed  in  his  hands, 
from  the  commander  of  the  Department. 

"  BRAGG'S  HEADQUARTERS,  MISSION  RIDGE, 

November  25,  1863. 

"In  conveying  to  you  this  distinguished  recognition  of  your 
signal  gallantry  in  carrying,  through  a  terrible  storm  of  iron,  a 
mountain  crowned  with  batteries  and  encircled  with  rifle-pits,  I  am 
constrained  to  express  my  own  admiration  of  your  noble  conduct, 
and  am  proud  to  tell  you  that  the  veteran  Generals  from  other 
fields  who  witnessed  your  heroic  bearing,  place  your  assault  and 
triumph  among  the  most  brilliant  achievements  of  the  war. 
Thanks,  Soldiers  !  You  have  made,  this  day,  a  glorious  page  of 
history. 

"GORDON  GRANGER." 


78  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

There  was  a  species  of  poetic  justice  in  it  all  that 
would  have  made  the  prince  of  dramatists  content. 
The  ardor  of  the  men  had  been  quenchless  ;  there  had 
been  three  days  of  fitful  fever,  and  after  it,  alas,  a 
multitude  slept  well.  The  work  on  the  right,  left  and 
center  cost  us  full  four  thousand  killed  and  wounded. 
There  is  a  tremble  of  the  lip  but  a  flash  of  pride  in  the 
eye  as  the  soldier  tells  with  how  many  he  went  in — how 
expressive  is  that  "  went  in ! "  Of  a  truth  it  was 
wading  in  deep  waters — with  how  few  he  came  out.  I 
cannot  try  to  swing  the  burden  clear  from  any  heart  by 
throwing  into  the  scale  upon  the  other  side  the  dead 
weight  of  fifty-two  pieces  of  captured  artillery,  ten 
thousand  stand  of  arms  and  heaps  of  dead  enemies,  or 
by  driving  upon  it  a  herd  of  seven  thousand  prisoners. 
Nothing  of  all  this  can  lighten  that  burden  a  single 
ounce,  but  those  three  days'  work  brought  Tennessee 
to  resurrection ;  set  the  flag,  that  fairest  blossom  in 
all  this  flowery  world,  to  blooming  in  its  native  soil 
again. 

That  splendid  march  from  the  Federal  line  of  battle 
to  the  crest,  was  made  in  one  hour  and  five  minutes, 
but  it  was  a  grander  march  toward  the  end  of  carnage ; 
a  glorious  campaign  of  sixty-five  minutes  toward  the 
white  borders  of  peace.  It  made  that  fleeting  Novem 
ber  afternoon  imperishable.  Let  the  struggle  be 


IN     CAMP    AND     FIELD.  79 

known  as  the  Battle  of  Mission  Ridge,  and  now  that 
calmer  days  have  come,  men  make  pilgrimage  and 
women  smile  again  among  the  mountains  of  the 
Cumberland,  but  they  need  no  guide.  Rust  may  have 
eaten  the  guns ;  the  graves  of  the  heroes  may  have 
subsided  like  waves  weary  of  their  troubling ;  the 
soldier  and  his  leader  may  have  lain  down  together, 
but  there,  embossed  upon  the  globe,  Mission  Ridge 
will  stand  its  fitting  monument  forever. 

THANKSGIVING  AT  CHATTANOOGA. 

The  day  after  the  battle  was  Thanksgiving,  and  we 
had  services  in  Chattanooga — sad,  solemn,  grand.  The 
church-bells  hung  dumb  in  their  towers,  indeed,  and 
you  shall  know  why  in  its  time,  but  for  all  that,  there 
were  chimes  so  grand  that  men  uncovered  their  heads 
as  they  heard  them.  At  twelve  o'clock  the  great  guns 
at  Fort  Wood  began  to  toll.  Civilians  said,  "  Can  they 
be  at  it  again  ?»" — and  soldiers  said,  "  The  guns  are  not 
shotted,  and  the  sound  is  too  regular  for  work."  I 
hastened  out  to  the  Fort,  and  the  guns  chimed  on.  A 
dim  impression  I  had  received  before  brightened  as  I 
stood  upon  the  parapet  and  looked  over  the  scene. 
What  it  was  like  flashed  upon  me  in  a  moment :  the 
valley  was  a  grand  cathedral,  Fort  Wood  the  pulpit  of 


80  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

the  mighty  minster,  and  far  down  the  descending  aisle 
in  front  rose  Orchard  Knob  the  altar.  The  dead  were 
lying  there,  far  out  to  the  eastern  wall,  and  GOD'S 
chandelier  hung  high  in  the  dome.  They  were  the 
accents  of  praise  I  was  hearing;  thirty-four  syllables  of 
thanksgiving  the  guns  were  saying :  "  Oh,  give  thanks 
unto  the  LORD,  for  He  is  good ;  for  His  mercy 
endureth  forever !  "  And  the  hills  took  up  the  anthem 
and  struck  sublimely  in  ;  from  the  Ridge  it  came  back, 
"give  thanks  unto  the  LORD,"  and  Waldron's  height 
uttered  it,  "  for  His  mercy  endureth,"  and  Lookout 
Valley  sang  aloud,  "  forever,  forever,"  and  all  the 
mountains  cried,  "  Amen  !  " 

And  the  churches  of  Chattanooga  had  congregations. 
Those  who  composed  them  had  come  silent  and  suffer 
ing  and  of  steady  heart ;  had  come  upon  stretchers ; 
come  in  men's  arms,  like  infants  to  the  christening ; 
ambulances  had  been  drawing  up  to  the  church-doors 
all  night  with  their  burdens,  and  within  those  walls  it 
looked  one  great  altar  of  sacrifice.  The  nearest 
of  these  edifices  is  hardly  a  dozen  paces  from  my 
quarters,  and  I  go  out  and  sit  upon  its  step  in  the  sun. 
It  is  the  same  building  wherein  the  gifted  Murdoch, 
only  a  few  days  before,  had  given  his  splendid  render 
ings  of  drama  and  lyric.  I  do  not  hear  the  music  of 
his  voice,  neither  do  I  hear  a  moan.  The  doors  are 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  8l 

noiselessly  opening  and  closing,  and    I   see  pale   faces 
—bloody  garments.     Right  hands  lie  in  the  porch  that 
have    offended   and    been    cut   off;    castaway  feet   are 
there,  too,  but  there  is  nothing  about  sinning  feet  in 
the  Sermon  on  the  Mount !      It   is  not  the  house   of 
wailing  on  whose   threshold   I   am   waiting;    it   is  the 
house  of  patience.     Five  still  figures,  covered  by  five 
brown  blankets,  are   ranged   on   the    floor   beside    me. 
Their  feet  are  manacled  with  bits  of  slender  twine,  but 
a  spider's  thread  could  hold  them.     I  lift  a  corner  of 
the  blankets  and  look  at  the  quiet  faces.     By  the  gray 
coat.  I   see  that  one   is  a  dead   rebel.      Do  men   look 
nearer  alike  when  dead  than  when  alive?      Else  how- 
could   it  have   chanced  that  one   of   these  sleepers   in 
Federal   blue  should  resemble  him  nearly  enough   for 
both  to  have  been  "  twinned  at  a  birth?"     They  are 
not  wounded  in  the  face,  and  so  there  is  nothing  to 
shock   you ;    they  fell   in   their   full    strength.      Tread 
lightly,   lest    they   be    not    dead,    but    sleeping.      The 
silence  within  oppresses  me  ;    it  seems  as  if  an  accent 
of  pain  from  some  sufferer  in  that  solemn  church  would 
be    a  welcome    sound,  and    I    think   of   a   brave   bird 
wounded  unto  death,  that  I  have  held  in  my  hand,  its 
keen  eye  undimmed  and  full  upon  me,  throbbing  with 
the  pain  ant,-  the  dying,  and  yet  so  silent ! 


82  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

But  I  am  not  trying  to  write  a  poem,  and  so,  at  the 
risk  of  startling  you,  I  must  tell  you  that  the  grating 
sounds  of  busy  life  around  are  set  to  no  minor  key,  in 
keeping  with  the  scenes.  Nature  never  sympathizes 
with  human  suffering,  thougH  in  our  vanity  we  some 
times  think  she  does,  and  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that 
man  and  nature  are  often  much  alike.  Three  or  four 
little  Africans — by  some  accident  born  unbleached — are 
playing  "  hop-scotch  "  on  the  sunny  slope  at  the  corner 
of  the  church,  gurgling  like  japanned  water-spouts  with 
laughter,  and  exploding  now  and  then  into  an  unmiti 
gated  "  yah,  yah."  A  couple  of  soldiers  are  going  by, 
while  several  white-wood  coffins  are  being  borne  up  to 
the  porch.  They  stop,  give  a  glance,  and  one  says  to 
the  other,  "  I  say,  Jack,  our  boys  killed  on  Mission 
Ridge,  yesterday,  are  thundering  lucky, — don't  you 
think  so?"  "Why?"  said  his  comrade.  "Because 
they  can  all  have  wooden  overcoats ! "  It  was  no 
heartless  jest,  as  you  might  fancy,  but  an  old  cam 
paigner's  way  of  putting  things.  Alas,  for  the  battle 
fields  to  whose  heroes  the  luxury  of  a  coffin  must  be 
denied,  and  yet  they  sleep  as  sweetly  close  folded  in 
the  earth.  I  go  around  the  church ;  a  soldier  has  his 
foot  upon  a  spade,  digging  a  hole.  I  ask  him  its 
purpose.  He  never  looks  up,  but  keeps  crowding  the 
rusty  blade  craunchingly  into  the  red  earth,  and  tosses 


IN    CAMP    AND     FIELD.  83 

the  answer  to  me  sullenly  over  his  left  shoulder: 
"  buryin'  legs !  "  I  look  down  and  see  uncertain  shapes 
beneath  a  blanket  lying  on  the  ground,  go  to  the  right 
about,  and  walk  gently  away.  The  ragged  cut  he  gave 
me  was  even  more  painful  than  the  Timbuctooan 
explosives,  but  when  I  think  of  it,  it  is  only  the  blunt 
edge  of  use  with  which  he  did  it.  He  would  have 
played  sexton  to  his  own  limbs  as  coolly. 

You  wander  down  into  Main  street ;  hospitals  there. 
You  go  up  the  hill  by  the  Market  House;  hospitals 
there.  You  see  thirty  unarmed  men  drawn  up  on  the 
sidewalk,  a  Lieutenant  commanding.  Four  soldiers  are 
bringing  weapons  strange  to  them  across  the  street ; 
their  arms  are  full  of  shovels :  you  see  the  builders  of 
the  doomsday  houses ;  it  is  the  Shovel  Brigade.  An 
order  is  given,  and  away  they  move,  up  the  hill,  out  of 
town,  to  the  eastward.  They  are  not  sad  men,  as  the 
lamenting  Rachels  would  believe,  but  cheerful,  if  not 
smiling.  Shall  we  follow  them  to  the  place  of  graves  ? 
There  it  is,  the  slope  turned  towards  the  setting  sun, 
that  even  now  is  "  promising  a  glorious  morrow ; "  a 
strange  piece  of  check-work ;  a  spot  already  honey 
combed  with  graves.  And  the  Shovel  Brigade  begins 
to  widen  the  breadth  of  the  solemn  tillage  ;  doing  for 
dead  comrades  what,  for  anything  they  know  or  think, 
somebody  may  do  for  them  the  next  day  or  the  next. 


84  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

There  were  seven  hundred  and  forty-two  graves  in  that 
one  place,  on  Thanksgiving  night. 

Going  slowly  homeward  we  meet  them  coming. 
And  what  is  them?  The  plaintive  cry  of  fifes — it  is 
almost  a  woman's  wail — and  the  moan  of  muffled 
drums  come  up  from  the  laps  of  the  little  valleys  of 
Chattanooga.  It  is  the  lament  of  Ramah  here  in 
Tennessee !  I  have  heard  the  splendid  bands  in  great 
cities,  and  the  sighing  of  organs  over  the  dead,  but 
that  music  among  the  mountains  I  cannot  describe. 
There  are  tears  in  the  tones,  and  will  be  till  my  dying 
day.  An  ambulance  bearing  the  dead,  and  then  a 
dozen  comrades  following  after,  two  by  two,  another 
ambulance  and  more  comrades ;  but  no  flags,  no  pomp, 
only  those  fifes,  like  the  voice  of  girls  that  sing 
"  China."  The  ambulances  are  lightened.  Dirge  and 
"  Dead  March  "  are  dropped  into  the  graves,  and  back 
they  go  to  a  quickstep,  here,  there,  everywhere ;  the 
fifes  warble  like  birds  in  spring;  life  and  cheer  tread 
close  on  death  and  gloom.  And  so  it  went,  Thursday 
and  Friday  and  Saturday.  And  such  was  Thanks 
giving  at  Chattanooga. 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  85 


AFTER   THE  BATTLE. 

When  a  furnace  is  in  blast,  the  ret*  fountain  sparkles 
and  plays  like  a  mountain  spring,  and  the  rude  sur 
roundings  brighten  to  the  peak  of  the  rough  rafters 
with  a  strange  beauty.  When  the  fire  is  out,  and  the 
black  and  rugged  masses  of  dull  iron  lie  dead  upon  the 
ground,  with  a  dumb  and  stubborn  resistance,  who 
would  dream  that  they  had  ever  leaped  with  life  and 
light? 

A  battle  and  a  furnace  are  alike.  It  is  wonderful 
how  dull  natures  brighten  and  grow  costly  in  the  glow 
of  battle ;  how  the  sterling  worth  and  wealth  there  are 
in  them  shine  out,  and  the  common  man  stands  trans 
figured,  his  heart  in  his  hand  and  his  foot  in  the  realm 
of  grandeur.  But  ah,  when  the  fire  is  out,  and  the 
scarred  earth  is  heaped  with  rigid  clay,  the  black 
mouths  of  the  guns  speechless,  mighty  hammers  and 
no  hands,  the  wild  hurrah  died  away,  and  all  the 
splendid  action  of  the  charge  vanished  from  the  field, 
and  you  wander  among  the  dull  remainders,  the  dead 
embers  of  the  intensest  life  and  glow  that  swept  your 
soul  out,  only  yesterday,  and  drifted  it  on  with  the 
skirmish  line,  you  begin  to  know  what  those  words 
mean — "  after  the  battle." 


86  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

I  feel  like  taking  up  the  story  just  where  I  left  it,  on 
Wednesday  night  at  sunset,  when  our  flags  flapped  like 
eagles'  wings,  and  the  wild  cry  of  triumph  quivered 
along  the  mountain.  Standing  on  the  edge  of  the 
field  in  the  moonlight,  calm  as  a  field  of  wheat, 
stretches  the  rough  valley  that  jarred  with  the  rush 
and  whirl  of  the  battle.  From  away  beyond  the  ridge, 
three  miles  out  to  Chicamauga  station,  the  dropping 
shots  from  Sheridan's  guns  faintly  punctuate  the 
silence,  but  here,  listen  as  you  will,  you  can  hear  no 
sound  but  the  click  of  ambulance  wheels,  slowly  rolling 
in  with  their  mangled  burdens ;  no  sigh,  no  groan, 
nothing  but  the  sobbing  lapse  of  the  Tennessee. 

It  is  strange  that  a  battle  almost  always  lies  between 
two  breadths  of  sleep :  the  dreamless  slumber  into 
which  men  fall  upon  its  eve :  the  calm  repose  they  sink 
in  at  its  end.  Night  fairly  held  its  breath  above  the 
camps ;  the  wing  of  silence  was  over  them  all.  Then 
came  Thursday  morning,  bright  and  beautiful.  You  go 
out  to  the  field ;  and  you  keep  saying  over  and  over, 
"  after  the  battle — after  the  battle."  Men  prone  upon 
their  faces  in  death's  deep  abasement ;  here  one,  his 
head  pillowed  upon  his  folded  arms ;  there  one,  his 
cheek  pressed  upon  a  stone,  as  was  Jacob's  at  Bethel ; 
yonder  one,  his  fingers  stiffened  round  his  musket. 
Now  you  pass  where  a  "  butternut "  and  a  true  blue 


IN    CAMP    AND     FIELD.  87 

have  gone  down  together,  the  arm  of  the  one  flung 
over  the  other ;  where  a  young  boy  of  fifteen  lies  face 
upward,  both  hands  clasped  over  his  heart.  The  sun 
has  touched  the  frost  that  whitened  his  hair,  as  if  he 
had  grown  old  in  a  night,  and  it  hangs  like  tears  fresh- 
fallen  upon  his  cheeks ;  where  a  Lieutenant  grasps  a 
bush,  as  if  he  died  vainly  feeling  for  a  little  hold  upon 
earth  and  life ,  where  a  stained  trail  leads  you  to  a 
shelter  behind  a  rock,  and  a  dead  Captain  who  had 
crept  way  out  of  sight  and  fallen  asleep ;  where 
friends  and  foes  lie  in  short  windrows,  as  if  Death  had 
begun  the  harvest  and  had  wearied  of  the  work.  And 
so,  through  the  valley  and  up  the  Ridge,  in  every 
attitude  lie  the  unburied  dead  ;  lie  just  as  they  fell  in 
the  battle.  And  those  faces  are  not  what  you  would 
think :  hardly  one  distorted  with  any  passion ;  almost 
as  white  and  calm  as  Ben  Adhem's  dream  of  peace ; 
many  brightened  with  something  like  a  smile ;  a  few 
strangely  beautiful.  Wounded  ones  that  escaped  the 
moonlight  search  have  lain  silently  waiting  for  morning, 
without  murmur  or  complaint ;  glad  they  are  alive ; 
not  grieved  they  are  wounded,  for/'  did  we  not  take  the 
Ridge  ? "  they  say.  Thus  did  the  old  soldierly  spirit 
of  one  flash  up  like  an  expiring  candle,  and  go  out 
right  there  on  the  field  as  he  spoke ;  he  died  with  the 
last  word  on  his  lips,  and  "  went  up  higher." 


PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

Spots  all  along  that  terrible  mountain  route  are  wait 
ing  some  poet's  breath  to  blossom  with  flowers  immor 
tal.  Here,  by  this  gray  rock,  lay  the  soldier,  one 
shoulder  shattered  like  a  piece  of  potter's  clay,  and 
thus  urged  two  comrades  who  had  halted  to  bear  him 
to  the  rear:  "  Don't  stop  for  me — I'm  of  no  account — 
for  GOD'S  sake,  push  right  up  with  the  boys !  " — and  on 
they  went  and  left  him  weltering  in  his  bloody  vest 
ments.  Between  the  first  and  second  ranges  of  the 
enemy's  works,  right  in  the  flush  of  the  charge,  a  Cap 
tain  fell,  and  two  men  came  to  his  aid.  "  Don't  wait 
here,"  he  said  ;  "  go  back  to  your  company  ;  one  useless 
man  is  enough ;  don't  make  it  three."  Just  then  a 
cheer  floated  down  the  mountain  as  they  took  the 
rifle-pit.  "  Don't  you  hear  that  ?  "  he  cried  ;  "  march  !" 
and  away  they  went.  Such  incidents  as  these  strow  all 
the  way  from  base  to  crest ;  happening  in  an  instant, 
lost  and  forgotten  in  the  whirlwind  ;  worthy,  every  one 
of  them,  of  a  medal  in  gold  ;  worthy,  every  one  of 
them,  of  a  place  in  history  and  hearts. 

A  MOUNTAIN  CAMP. 

What  mighty  names  of  paltry  things  war  thrusts  into 
history,  and  leaves  them  there  like  flies  preserved  in 
amber.  There  is  Stevenson.  What  columns  have  been 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  89 

written  about  it — nay,  what  columns  have  converged  to 
it,  and  yet  Stevenson  is  a  straggling,  ragged  little  town, 
of  a  couple  of  dozen  buildings,  that  used  to  hang  about 
the  intersection  of  the  Memphis  and  Charleston,  and 
Nashville  and  Chattanooga  Railroads,  to  see  the  cars  go 
by.  It  was  dropped  down  fairly  within  the  borders  of 
Alabama,  among  the  rocky  ledges,  some  six  miles  from 
the  Tennessee  River,  and  there  is  nothing  contemptible 
about  Stevenson  but  Stevenson's  self.  The  Cumber 
land  hills,  laid  up  in  rock  and  sprinkled  thickly  with 
cedars,  are  piled  very  grandly  about  it,  all  rough  with 
monuments  of  Nature's  make,  the  gray  stones  set  up 
on  end,  strangely  carved  by  the  action  of  some  perished 
flood,  and  reminding  you  of  the  lonely  graveyards  of 
the  Covenanters,  the  inscriptions  all  washed  away. 
Tumbling  into  the  eddy  of  mules  and  elbows  in  the 
dark,  I  found  quarters  with  a  fighting  regiment,  the  3d 
Ohio.  Here,  turning  a  new  leaf,  there  lay  a  new  expe 
rience.  Ten  thousand  men  are  encamped  around  us. 
Far  up  the  hills,  reddening  the  cedars,  twinkle  the 
camp-fires ;  flocks  of  tents  dot  the  slopes ;  clusters  of 
mules  and  horses,  tied  to  trees,  present  peripheries  of 
heels  everywhere ;  valley  and  hill  are  tangled  in  a  net 
work  of  paths ;  fat  bacon  is  complaining  from  the  ends 
of  ramrods ;  the  aroma  of  coffee  struggles  with  baser 
odors ;  perched  upon  the  ledges,  at  length  beneath  the 


90  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

trees,  under  canvas  and  in  open  air — everywhere  sol 
diers.  Here  a  boy  has  just  planked  the  ace  and  taken 
the  "  trick ; "  or  finished  the  letter  to  the  girl  he  left 
behind  him,  or  lighted  his  pipe,  or  wrung  out  his  shirt, 
or  shaken  up  his  cedar  boughs  for  a  shake-down  ;  he  is 
playing  the  flute ;  he  is  drawing  the  long  bow ;  he  is 
talking  over  Perry ville  or  Murfreesboro.  Here,  by  an 
inch  of  candle,  a  cluster  of  two  heads  hangs  over  a 
book.  There,  around  a  half-cord  of  bread  and  a  pile 
of  russet  slabs  of  bacon,  and  sacks  of  sugar  and  rice,  a 
group  is  gathered,  little,  smoky  kettle,  tin  cup,  haver 
sack,  in  hand.  Somebody,  eager  to  see,  skips  up  on 
somebody's  slab  of  bacon  with  his  bare  feet,  and  the 
distribution  is  effected.  Up  through  the  night  wails  the 
bugle  ;  along  the  valley  rolls  the  beat  of  drums  ;  down 
from  the  crags  float,  "  When  this  cruel  war  is  over/' 
"  Oh,  take  your  time,  Miss  Lucy,"  and  the  loud  laugh 
and  the  tough  word.  The  money  changers  follow  the 
army ;  trade  bustles  up  on  the  heels  of  war ;  a  dumb- 
watch  swings  from  the  flap  of  a  tent  door ;  a  clothing 
store  is  anchored  by  a  tent-pin  ;  nick-nacks  and  noth 
ings  go  at  starvation  prices ;  water  suspected  of  lemon, 
a  dime  a  thimble-full ;  pencils  whose  lead,  unlike  Federal 
bullets,  does  not  go  quite  through,  are  good  for  a  quar 
ter  ;  and,  as  the  apothecary  says,  "  and  so  on." 

If,  like  a  cat,  you  step  gingerly  in  the  damp  grass ;  if 
you  are  given  to  touching  things  with  the  tips  of  your 


IN    CAMP    AND     FIELD.  QI 

fingers ;  if  you  are  a  disbeliever  in  the  "  peck  of  dirt " 
doctrine,  and  are  rose-waterish  and  patent-leathered  ;  if 
you  rebel  at  tin  plates,  bayonet  candle-sticks,  bacon  and 
hard- tack;  in  a  word,  if  you  have  any  "nonsense" 
about  you,  keep  out  of  the  camps ;  you  are  not  fit  for 
the  army ;  you  have  not  begun  to  find  out  what  the 
Union  is  worth.  A  capital  place  is  the  army  to  get  rid 
of  notions ;  to  settle  loose  joints  into  solid  independ 
ence  ;  to  fall  in  love  with  mother  earth  and  free  air. 


A  SOLDIER'S  MORNING. 

Morning  breaks  strangely  and  musically  in  camp. 
Not  a  familiar  sound  in  it  all ;  no  bells,  no  lowing 
herds,  no  "  cock's  shrill  clarion,"  no  rattling  pavements, 
no  opening  doors.  Turn  out  before  the  camps  are  astir, 
and  just  as  the  whole  family  of  canvas,  Sibley  cone, 
"  wall,"  and  that  bit  of  a  kennel,  the  "  dog "  tent, 
begin  to  show  gray  in  the  dawn.  The  colors  at  head 
quarters  droop  heavy  and  damp.  All  around  you,  as 
far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  it  seems  a  badly  harvested 
field  that  has  grown  a  monstrous  crop  of  men,  now 
lying  heads  and  points  everywhere.  By  the  calendar  it 
is  Sunday,  but  of  pattern  too  narrow  to  lap  over  into 
Alabama  in  this  year  of  grace  and  gunpowder,  '63. 


92  PICTURES     OF     LIFE 

And  now  the  music  begins :  floating  lightly  over  the 
top  of  the  woods  and  the  top  of  the  morning,  comes  a 
strange  Babel  of  melody ;  the  cat-bird  whines  through 
the  song  of  sparrow  and  robin,  and  the  bell  of  the 
bobolink  rings  out  over  the  scream  of  the  jay.  And 
the  little  brown  master  of  this  brisk  skirmish  of  dis 
cord  and  melody  sits  on  the  uttermost  green  billow 
of  summer — the  little  epicure  with  a  passion  for  beef 
steak  and  fat  spiders.  I  had  forgotten  until  the  minute 
that  I  was  in  the  home  of  the  mocking-bird,  that 
winged  polyglot  of  the  South.  These  birds  sing  out 
the  night  and  the  moonlight,  and  have  a  monotonous 
note  for  that  hour.  They  seem  to  be  posted  like  sen 
tries,  and  soldiers  as  they  ride  hear  them  passing  the 
little  signals  along  from  grove  and  thicket  to  grove 
and  thicket  again,  and  are  thus  challenged  by  each 
unseen  picket,  until  the  daybreak  and  the  song-break 
come  grandly  in  together. 

By  and  by,  from  field,  wood  and  hill,  come  the  sweet 
notes  of  the  reveille ;  bugle  echoes  bugle,  the  fifes  war 
ble  up  through  the  roaring  surf  of  the  drums,  and  the 
dear,  old  swell  of  a  full  band  rolls  over  the  tops  of  the 
trees  from  an  unseen  camp.  In  singular  contrast  to  all 
this,  an  anomalous  gamut  of  groans,  neighs  strangled 
in  the  making,  and  half-human  snorts,  runs  round  the 
whole  landscape.  It  is  the  hideous  morning  welcome 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  93 

of  the  immense  cordon  of  mules  to  the  rustle  of  the 
morning  forage.  Flags  flutter  out,  and  blue  threads  of 
smoke  curl  up  along  the  camps;  the  clink  of  the  but- 
ends  of  bayonets,  beating  the  little  bag  full  of  Rio,  give 
you  the  merry  music  of  the  soldier's  coffee-mill ;  little 
tin  pails  and  camp-kettles  go  tinkling  about.  You  are 
bugled  to  breakfast,  bugled  to  guard-mounting,  bugled 
to  dinner,  bugled  to  battle,  bugled  to  bed,  the  bass- 
drums  the  while  giving  three  vicious  growls  at  your 
heels  as  you  go.  These  "  calls"  are  pleasant  little  devices 
for  translating  curt  English  orders  into  music.  Brigades 
move  to  them,  and  cavalry  charge;  they  sound  clear 
and  shrill  on  the  field  of  battle,  and  the  horse  and  his 
rider  obey  them  together. 

But  there  is  one  "call"  sounded  just  after  breakfast, 
before  the  tent  of  the  surgeon,  that  summons  up,  in 
camp  phrase,  the  "cripples"  for  treatment.  It  is  not 
an  ugly  strain,  and  may  be  rendered  into  words  that 
exhaust  at  once  the  tune  and  its  burden  :  "  Come  to 
qui-nine,  come  to  qui-nine.  Walk  up  quick,  walk  up 
quick — come  to  qui-n-i-n-e  !  " 


94  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 


EVERY  DA  Y  LIFE  UNDER  CANVAS. 

If  there  are  men  in  the  world  gifted  with  the  most 
thorough  self-reliance,  American  soldiers  are  the  men. 
To  fight  in  the  grand  anger  of  battle  seems  to  me  to 
require  less  manly  fortitude  than  to  bear  without  mur 
muring  the  swarm  of  little  troubles  that  vex  camp  and 
march.  No  matter  where  or  when  you  halt  them  they 
are  at  once  at  home.  They  know  precisely  what  to  do 
first,  and  they  do  it.  I  have  seen  them  march  into  a 
strange  region  at  dark,  and  almost  as  soon  as  fires 
would  show  well,  they  were  twinkling  all  over  the 
field,  the  Sibley  cones  rising  like  the  work  of  enchant 
ment  everywhere,  and  the  little  dog-tents  lying  snu£ 
to  the  ground,  as  if,  like  the  mushrooms,  they  had 
grown  there,  and  the  aroma  of  coffee  and  tor 
tured  bacon,  suggesting  creature  comforts,  and  the 
whole  economy  of  life  in  canvas  cities  moving  as 
steadily  on  as  if  it  had  never  intermitted.  The 
movements  of  regiments  are  as  blind  as  fate. 
Nobody  can  tell  to-night  where  he  will  be  to-morrow, 
and  yet  with  the  first  glimmer  of  morning  the  camp  is 
astir,  and  the  preparations  begin  for  staying  there  for 
ever.  An  ax,  a  knife  and  a  will  are  tools  enough  for  a 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  95 

soldier  house-builder.  He  will  make  the  mansion  and 
all  its  belongings  of  red  cedar,  from  the  ridge-pole  to 
the  forestick,  though  a  couple  of  dog-tents  stretched 
from  wall  to  wall  will  make  a  roof  worth  thanking  the 
LORD  for.  Having  been  mason  and  joiner,  he  turns 
cabinet-maker ;  there  are  his  table,  his  chairs,  his  side 
board  ;  he  glides  into  upholstery,  and  there  is  his  bed 
of  bamboo,  as  full  of  springs  and  comfort  as  a  patent 
mattress.  He  whips  out  a  needle  and  turns  tailor ;  he 
is  not  above  the  mysteries  of  the  sauce-pan  and  camp- 
kettle  ;  he  can  cook,  if  not  quite  like  a  Soyer,  yet 
exactly  like  a  soldier,  and  you  may  believe  that  he  can 
eat  you  hungry  when  he  is  in  trim  for  it.  Cosy  little 
cabins,  neatly  fitted,  are  going  up  ;  here  a  boy  is  making 
a  fire-place,  and  quite  artistically  plastering  it  with  the 
inevitable  red  earth ;  he  has  found  a  crane  somewhere 
and  swung  up  thereon  a  two-legged  dinner-pot ;  there 
a  fellow  is  finishing  out  a  chimney  with  brick  from  an 
old  kiln  of  secession  proclivities ;  yonder  a  bower-house, 
closely  interwoven^  with  evergreen,  is  almost  ready  for 
the  occupants ,  the  avenues  between  the  lines  of  tents 
are  cleared  and  smoothed — " policed,"  in  camp  phrase; 
little  seats  with  cedar  awnings  in  front  of  the  tents  give 
a  cottage-look,  while  the  interior,  in  a  rude  way,  has  a 
genuine  home-like  air.  The  bit  of  a  looking-glass  hangs 
against  the  cotton  wall ;  a  handkerchief  of  a  carpet  just 


g6  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

before  the  bunk  marks  the  stepping-off  place  to  the 
land  of  dreams ;  a  violin  case  is  strung  to  a  convenient 
hook,  flanked  by  a  gorgeous  picture  of  some  hero  of 
somewhere,  mounted  upon  a  horse  rampant  and  saltant, 
"  and  what  a  length  of  tail  behind ! " 

The  business  of  living  has  fairly  begun  again.  There 
is  hardly  an  idle  moment,  and  save  here  and  there  a 
man  brushing  up  his  musket,  getting  that  "damned 
spot"  off  his  bayonet,  burnishing  his  revolver,  you 
would  not  suspect  that  these  men  had  but  one  terrible 
errand.  They  are  tailors,  they  are  tinkers,  they  .are 
writers;  fencing,  boxing,  cooking,  eating,  drilling, — 
those  who  say  that  camp-life  is  a  lazy  life  know  little 
about  it.  And  then  the  reconnoissances  "  on  private 
account ; "  every  wood,  ravine,  hill,  field,  is  explored  ; 
the  productions,  animal  and  vegetable,  are  inventoried, 
and  one  day  renders  them  as  thoroughly  conversant 
with  the  region  round  about  as  if  they  had  been  dwell 
ing  there  a  lifetime.  Soldiers  have  interrogation  points 
in  both  eyes.  They  have  tasted  water  from  every 
spring  and  well,  estimated  the  corn  to  the  acre,  tried 
the  water-melons,  bagged  the  peaches,  knocked  down 
the  persimmons,  milked  the  cows,  roasted  the  pigs, 
picked  the  chickens ;  they  know  who  lives  here  and 
there  and  yonder,  the  whereabouts  of  the  native  boys, 
the  names  of  the  native  girls.  If  there  is  a  curious  cave, 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  97 

a  queer  tree,  a  strange  rock,  anywhere  about,  they  know 
it.  You  can  see  them  with  chisel,  hammer  and  haver 
sack,  tugging  up  the  mountain,  or  scrambling  down  the 
ravine,  in  a  geological  passion  that  would  have  won  the 
right  hand  of  fellowship  from  Hugh  Miller,  and  home 
they  come  with  specimens  that  would  enrich  a  cabinet. 
The  most  exquisite  fossil  buds  just  ready  to  open,  beau 
tiful  shells,  rare  minerals,  are  collected  by  these  rough 
and  dashing  naturalists.  If  you  think  the  rank  and  file 
have  no  taste  and  no  love  for  the  beautiful,  it  is  time 
you  remembered  of  what  material  they  are  made. 
Nothing  will  catch  a  soldier's  eye  quicker  than  a  patch 
of  velvet  moss,  or  a  fresh  little  flower,  and  many  a  letter 
leaves  the  camps  enriched  with  faded  souvenirs  of  these 
expeditions.  I  said  that  nothing  will  catch  an  old 
campaigner's  eye  quicker  than  a  flower,  but  I  was 
wrong, — a  dirty,  ragged  baby  will.  I  have  seen  a  thir- 
teen-dollar  man  expend  a  dollar  for  trinkets  to  hang 
about  the  neck  of  an  urchin  that  at  home  and  three 
years  ago  he  would  hardly  have  touched  with  the  tongs. 
Do  you  say,  it  is  for  the  mother's  sake  ?  You  have  only 
to  see  the  bedraggled,  coarse,  lank,  tobacco-chewing 
dam  to  abandon  that  idea,  like  a  foundling,  to  the 
tender  mercies  of  the  first  door-step. 

But  to  come  back  to  camp :  talk  of  perfumed  clouds 
of  incense,  there  is  nothing  sweeter  than  a  clear,  bright 


98  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

red  cedar  fire  ;  the  mountain  air  is  fairly  laden  with  the 
fragrance  Everything  is  red  cedar,  and  a  prairie  man, 
as  he  sees  the  great  camp-fires  fed  with  hewn  timbers 
of  the  precious  wood,  would  about  as  soon  think  of 
cutting  up  his  grand  piano — seven  octave  or  so — into 
fuel  for  the  kitchen  stove.  The  breath  of  the  red  cedar 
fires  will  float  back  to  me  like  a  pleasant  memory,  if 
ever  I  inhale  again  the  sulphurous  Tartarean  gusts  from 
the  smothering  beds  of  Illinois  coal.  Writing  of  fuel, 
you  should  see  the  fences  melt  away  anywhere  within  a 
mile  of  camp ;  up  goes  the  red  cedar  again,  like  the 
prophet,  in  a  chariot  of  fire,  and  not  enough  left  for  a 
bow  and  arrow. 

The  work  of  improvement  goes  briskly  on  ;  a  week 
has  passed,  and  the  boys  seem  settled  for  life.  Just 
before  tattoo,  some  night,  down  comes  an  order  to 
march  at  five  in  the  morning.  A  fine,  drizzling  rain  has 
set  in ;  a  thick  blanket  of  fog  has  been  snugly  tucked 
around  the  camp ;  the  fires  look  large  and  red  and 
cheerful ;  the  boys  are  just  ready  to  turn  in  when  down 
comes  the  order.  Nothing  is  as  you  would  think ;  no 
complaints,  no  murmurings,  no  watching  the  night  out. 
They  are  not  to  be  cheated  out  of  their  sleep — not 
they ;  it  takes  your  green  recruits  for  that ;  every 
bundle  of  a  blanket  has  a  sleeping  soldier  in  it ;  every 
knapsack  has  a  drowsy  head  on  it.  At  three  the  roll 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  99 

of  a  drum  straggles  through  the  gloom  ;  the  camp  is 
awake ;  tents  are  struck,  knapsacks  packed,  baggage 
wagons  loaded,  mules  untangled.  Soldiers  have 
notions,  and  among  them  is  the  destruction  of 
their  "  improvements ;  "  the  bower-house  crackles  like 
a  volley  of  musketry,  the  cedar  cottages  are  in  flames; 
the  stools  and  tables  are  glowing  coals,  and  if  they 
don't  fiddle,  as  Nero  did,  while  their  Rome  is  burn 
ing — and  as  much  of  a  Rome,  too,  as  that  was  in  the 
time  of  the  lupine  brothers — at  least  they  eat.  A 
soldier  can  starve  patiently,  but  when  he  has  a  chance 
he  eats  potently.  Huddled  around  their  little  fires, 
in  the  thick  and  turbid  morning,  the  smutty  kettles 
bubble  with  the  Arabic  decoction  as  black  as  the 
tents  of  the  Sheik  who  threw  dust  on  the  beard  of 
his  father:  unhappy  pork  sizzles  from  ramrods,  and 
the  boys  take  breakfast. 

Some  wise  man  proposed  in  Congress  the  substitu 
tion  of  tea  for  coffee  in  the  army,  and  told  the  people 
that  the  soldiers  would  welcome  the  change !  A 
tolerably  fair  specimen  of  theoretical,  stay-at-home 
wisdom,  but  not  worth  a  Sabbath-day's  journey  of  the 
Queen  of  Sheba  to  look  at.  Coffee  is  their  true  aqua 
vita ;  their  solace  and  mainstay.  When  a  boy  cannot 
drink  his  coffee,  you  may  be  sure  he  has  done  drinking 
altogether.  On  a  march,  no  sooner  is  a  halt  ordered, 


100  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

than  little  fires  begin  to  twinkle  along  the  line ;  they 
make  coffee  in  five  minutes,  drink  it  in  three,  take  a 
drill  at  a  hard  cracker,  and  are  refreshed.  Our  com 
rades  from  "  der  Rhein "  will  squat  phlegmatically 
anywhere,  even  in  line  of  battle.  No  sooner  has  the 
storm  swept  to  some  other  part  of  the  field,  than  the 
kettles  begin  to  boil,  and  amid  stray  bullets  and 
shattering  shell,  they  take  great  swallows  of  heart  and 
coffee  together.  It  is  Rhine  wine,  the  soul  of  Gam- 
brinus,  "  Switzer  "  and  "  Limberg  "  in  one. 

But  it  is  five  o'clock  and  a  dingy  morning ;  the 
regiments  march  away  in  good  cheer,  the  army-wagons 
go  streaming  and  swearing  after  them  ;  the  beat  of  the 
drum  grows  fainter,  the  last  straggler  is  out  of  sight ; 
the  canvas  city  has  vanished  like  a  vision.  On  such  a 
morning  and  amid  such  a  scene  I  have  loitered  till  it 
seemed  as  if  a  busy  city  had  been  passing  out  of  sight, 
leaving  nothing  behind  for  all  that  life  and  light  but 
empty  desolation.  Will  you  wonder  much  if  I  tell  you 
that  I  have  watched  such  a  vanishing  with  a  pang  of 
regret ;  that  the  trampled  field  looked  dim  to  me,  worn 
smooth  and  beautiful  by  the  touch  of  those  brave  feet 
whose  owners  have  trod  upon  thorns  with  song — feet, 
alas,  how  many,  that  shall  never  again  in  all  this 
coming  and  going  world  make  music  upon  the  old 
thresholds?  And  how  many  such  sites  of  perished 


IN  CAMP  AND  FIELD:  *oi 

cities  this  war  has  made ;    how  many  bonds  of  good 
fellowship  have  been  rent  to  be  united  no  more ! 

At  home  anywhere,  I  wrote,  and  I  might  well  have 
added,  and  used  to  anything,  the  boys  are.  You 
would  wonder,  I  think,  to  see  men  lie  right  down  in 
the  dusty  road,  under  the  full  noon  sun  of  Tennessee 
and  Alabama,  and  fall  asleep  in  a  minute.  I  have 
passed  hundreds  of  such  sleepers.  A  dry  spot  is  as 
good  as  a  mattress;  the  flap  of  a  blanket  quite  a 
downy  pillow.  You  would  wonder  to  see  a  whole 
army  corps  without  a  shred  of  a  tent  to  bless  them 
selves  with,  lying  anywhere  and  everywhere  in  an  all- 
night  rain,  and  not  a  growl  nor  a  grumble.  I  was 
curious  to  see  whether  the  pluck  and  good  nature  were 
washed  out  of  them,  and  so  I  made  my  way  out  of  the 
snug,  dry  quarters  I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  occupied,  at 
five  in  the  morning,  to  see  what  water  had  done  for 
them.  Nothing !  Each  soaked  blanket  hatched  out 
as  jolly  a  fellow  as  you  would  wish  to  see — muddy, 
dripping,  half-foundered,  forth  they  came,  wringing 
themselves  out  as  they  went,  with  the  look  of  a  troop 
of  wet-down  roosters  in  a  fall  rain,  plumage  at  half- 
mast,  but  hearts  trumps  every  time.  If  they  swore — 
and  some  did — it  was  with  a  half-laugh ;  the  sleepy 
fires  were  stirred  up ;  then  came  the  inevitable  coffee, 
and  they  were  as  good  as  new.  "  Blood  is  thicker  than 


102  PIOT'URES    OF    LIFE 

water."  I  could  never  tire  of  telling  you  how  like  iron 
— wrought  iron — men  can  get  to  be,  and  half  the 
sympathy  I  had  corked  and  labeled  for  the  hardships 
of  soldiers  evaporated  when  I  came  to  see  how  like 
rugged  oaks  they  toughened  into  knots  under  them. 
There  is  another  light  to  the  picture.  The  regiment 
twelve  hundred  strong  now  stacks  five  hundred  mus 
kets.  Bullets  did  not  do  it,  but  just  the  terrible  sifting 
process ;  the  regiment  is  screened  like  grain ;  the 
sturdiest  manhood  alone  remains.  Writing  of  downy 
pillows,  I  noticed  on  that  rainy  morning,  that  one  of 
the  boys  did  not  hug  mother  earth  quite  as  closely  as 
the  rest ;  his  head  was  well  up,  and  when  he  shook 
himself  and  whisked  off  the  blanket  he  had  lain  upon, 
I  saw  his  pillow,  and  no  duck  ever  dressed  such 
plumage ;  it  was  a  little  triangular  piece  of  iron,  the 
fragment  of  some  bit  of  machinery,  through  which 
were  thrust  three  iron  rods  some  six  inches  in  length. 
It  was  first  this  queer  tripod  of  a  pillow,  then  a  corner 
of  a  blanket,  then  a  pouring  rain,  and  then  a  good, 
hearty,  all-night  sleep.  Never  mind  that  feather  the 
wrong  way  in  your  pillow ;  thank  GOD  for  the  one 
feather,  pleasant  dreams  and  good-night ! 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  103 


THE  HOSPITAL  AFTER    THE   BATTLE. 

The  Ohio  at  Louisville  behind  you,  southward  across 
Kentucky  and  Tennessee  you  look  upon  the  region  in 
the  rear  of  the  Army  of  the  Cumberland,  a  breadth  of 
three  hundred  and  eight  miles  to  the  spurs  of  the 
mountains.  That  area  once  so  lovely  is  dappled  with 
those  shadows  strange  and  sad — the  Hospitals  of  the 
Federal  Army.  At  Chattanooga,  at  Bridgeport,  at 
Stevenson,  at  Cowan,  at  Decherd,  at  Murfreesboro,  at 
Nashville,  strown  all  along  the  way  are  flocks  of  tents 
sacred  to  mercy  and  the  soldier's  sake.  I  wish  I  could 
bring  you  near  enough  to  see  them ;  that  I  could  lift 
aside  a  fold  in  ward  A  here,  or  ward  B  there ;  that  you 
might  see  the  pale  rows,  each  man  upon  his  little 
couch,  the  white  sheet  setting  close  to  the  poor,  thin 
limbs  like  the  drapery  of  the  grave.  It  would  wonder 
fully  magnify,  I  think,  the  work  of  the  women  of  the 
North. 

I  would  not  take  you  to  the  Surgeon's  quarters  when 
the  battle  is  beginning ;  when  he  lays  off  the  green 
sash  and  the  tinseled  coat,  and  rolls  up  his  sleeves,  and 
spreads  wide  his  cases  filled  with  the  terrible  glitter  of 
silver  steel,  and  makes  ready  to  work.  They  begin  to 


104  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

come  in,  slowly  at  first,  one  man  nursing  a  shattered 
arm,  another  borne  by  his  comrades,  three  in  an 
ambulance,  one  on  a  stretcher ;  then  faster  and  faster, 
lying  here,  lying  there,  waiting  each  his  terrible  turn. 
The  silver  steel  grows  cloudy  and  lurid ;  true  right 
arms  are  lopped  like  slips  of  golden  willow ;  feet  that 
never  turned  from  the  foe,  forever  more  without  an 
owner,  strow  the  ground.  The  knives  are  busy,  the 
saws  play ;  it  is  bloody  work.  Ah,  the  surgeon  with 
heart  and  head,  with  hand  and  eye  fit  for  such  a  place, 
is  a  prince  among  men ;  cool  and  calm,  quick  and 
tender,  he  feels  among  the  arteries  and  fingers  the 
tendons  as  if  they  were  harp-strings.  But  the  cloud 
thunders  and  the  spiteful  rain  patters  louder  and 
fiercer,  and  the  poor  fellows  come  creeping  away  in 
broken  ranks  like  corn  beaten  down  with  the  flails 
of  the  storm.  "  My  GOD  !  "  cried  a  surgeon,  as,  look 
ing  up  an  instant  from  his  work,  he  saw  the  mutilated 
crowds  borne  in  ;  "  my  GOD .  are  all  my  boys  cut 
down !  "  And  yet  it  thundered  and  rained.  A  poor 
fellow  writhes  and  a  smothered  moan  escapes  him. 
"  Be  patient,  Jack,"  says  the  surgeon,  cheerfully;  "  I'll 
make  you  all  right  in  a  minute.'  And  what  a  meaning 
there  was  in  that  "  all  right !  "  It  was  a  right  arm  to 
come  off  at  the  elbow,  and  "  Jack  "  slipped  off  a  ring 
that  clasped  one  of  the  poor,  useless  fingers  that  were 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  105 

to  blend  with  the  earth  of  Alabama,  and  put  it  in  his 
pocket !  He  was  making  ready  for  the  "  all  right." 
Does  Alabama  mean  "here  we  rest?"  If  so,  how  sad 
yet  glorious  have  our  boys  made  it,  who  sink  to  rest 

"With  all  their  country's  wishes  blest!" 

Another  sits  up  while  the  surgeon  follows  the  bullet 
that  had  buried  itself  in  his  side  ;  it  is  the  work  of  an 
instant ;  no  solemn  council  here,  no  lingering  pause ; 
the  surgeon  is  bathed  in  patriot  blood  to  his  elbows, 
and  the  work  goes  on.  An  eye  lies  out  upon  a 
ghastly  cheek,  and  silently  the  sufferer  bides  his  time. 
"  Well,  Charley,"  says  the  doctor — he  is  dressing  a 
wound  as  he  talks — "What's  the  matter?"  "Oh,  not 
much,  Doctor,  only  a  hand  off."  Not  unlike  was  the 
answer  made  to  me  by  a  poor  fellow,  at  Bridgeport, 
shattered  as  a  tree  is  by  lightning ;  "  how  are  you 
now?"  I  said.  "Bully!"  was  the  reply.  You  should 
have  heard  that  word,  as  he  gave  it ;  vulgar  as  it  used 
to  seem,  it  grew  manly  and  noble,  and  I  shall  never 
hear  it  again  without  a  thought  for  the  boy  that 
uttered  it,  on  the  dusty  slope  of  the  Tennessee ;  the 
boy  that  sleeps  the  soldier's  sleep  within  an  hundred 
rods  of  the  spot  where  I  found  him.  And  so  it  is 
everywhere ;  not  a  whimper  nor  a  plaint.  Only  once 
did  I  hear  either.  An  Illinois  Lieutenant,  as  brave  a 


106  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

fellow  as  ever  drew  a  sword,  had  been  shot  through 
and  through  the  thighs,  fairly  impaled  by  the  bullet — 
the  ugliest  wound  but  one  I  ever  saw.  Eight  days 
before,  he  weighed  one  hundred  and  sixty.  Then,  he 
could  not  have  swung  one  hundred  and  twenty  clear  of 
the  floor.  He  had  just  been  brought  over  the  moun 
tain  ;  his  wounds  were  angry  with  fever ;  every  motion 
was  torture ;  they  were  lifting  him  as  tenderly  as  they 
could ;  they  let  him  slip  and  he  fell,  perhaps  six  inches. 
But  it  was  like  a  dash  from  a  precipice  to  him,  and  he 
wailed  out  like  a  little  child,  tears  wet  his  pale,  thin 
face,  and  he  only  said,  "  my  poor  child,  how  will  they 
tell  her?"  It  was  only  for  an  instant;  his  spirit  and 
his  frame  stiffened  up  together,  and  with  a  half  smile 
he  said,  "  don't  tell  anybody,  boys,  that  I  made  a  fool 
of  myself!"  The  Lieutenant  "sleeps  well,"  and  alas, 
for  the  "  poor  child  " — how  did  they  tell  her? 

A  soldier  fairly  riddled  with  bullets,  like  one  of  those 
battle-flags,  lay  on  a  blanket  gasping  for  breath. 
"  George,"  said  a  comrade  and  a  friend  before  this 
cruel  war  began,  with  one  arm  swung  up  in  a  sling, 
and  who  was  going  home  on  furlough,  "  George,  what 
shall  I  tell  them  at  home  for  you  ?"  "Tell  them,"  said 
he,  "that  there  isn't  hardly  enough  left  of  me  to  say 
4 1,'  but — hold  down  here  a  minute — tell  Kate  there  is 
enough  of  me  left  to  love  her  till  I  die."  George  got 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD  IO/ 

his  furlough  that  night,  and  left  the  ranks  forever.  It 
seems  to  me  that  all  true  women  must  envy  that  girl's 
fate.  Shot  away  all  but  his  heart,  that  still  beat 
true,  who  would  not  be  the  dead  soldier's  bride  ?  Oh, 
there  is  nothing  anywhere  here  to  make  you  blush  for 
human  weakness ;  the  bullet  is  not  moulded  that  can 
kill  Western  manhood. 

I  want  to  say  here,  that  the  surgeons  should  be 
compelled  to  report  to  the  WOMEN ;  if  they  do  their 
duty,  they  have  to  perform  in  large  measure  woman's 
work.  They  need  more  than  skill  and  scalpels ;  they 
want  woman's  fortitude,  tenderness  and  faith.  There 
are  the  noblest  of  men  among  the  surgeons  in  the 
Army  of  the  Cumberland,  who  do  not  halt  at  the  letter 
of  duty,  but  go  on  cheerfully  to  the  spirit ;  and  there 
are — GOD  save  the  mark ! — men  among  them  for  whom 
faithless  is  the  mildest  euphemism.  I  must  tell  one 
instance:  a  "contract"  surgeon — if  you  know  what 
that  is — went  out  on  a  pleasure  ride  within  the  hour — 
three  o'clock — that  two  hundred  sick  and  wounded  men 
came  into  his  ward.  He  returned  at  sunset,  and  on 
being  reminded  of  his  neglected  duty,  flippantly  replied, 
"  Oh,  I'll  do  them  in  half  an  hour !  "  What,  think  you, 
would  "do"  him  and  do  him  justice?  For  one,  I 
should  be  quite  content  to  trust  his  fate  to  the  verdict 
of  a  jury  of  the  women  of  the  North,  to  whom  be  glory 
and  honor  everlasting ! 


108  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 


WOMAN,    THE  SOLDIER'S  FRIEND. 

It  is  a  white,  dusty  ridge  in  Alabama ;  tall,  slim  oaks 
sprinkle  it,  and  beneath  them,  in  streets  with  a  strange, 
far-eastern  look,  stand  the  tents  of  one  of  those  blessed 
Cities  of  Mercy — a  Field  Hospital.  The  sun  pours 
hotly  down  ;  a  distant  drum  snarls  now  and  then,  as  if 
in  a  dream  ;  the  tinkling  concert  df  a  cloud  of  locusts — 
the  cicada  of  the  South — comes,  like  the  dear  old 
sleigh-bells'  chime,  from  a  distant  tree.  "The  loud 
laugh  that  tells  the  vacant  mind "  is  unheard :  the 
familiar  sound  of  closing  doors  and  children's  carol 
never  rises  there ;  the  tents  swell  white  and  sad  and 
still.  Within  them  lie  almost  three  thousand  soldiers, 
marred  with  all  wounds  conceivable,  wasted  with  pain, 
parched  with  fever,  wearily  turning,  wearily  waiting,  to 
take  up  the  blessed  march.  "  Ho  for  the  North ' " 
That  is  the  word,  the  ever-abiding  charmer  that  <J  lin 
gers  still  behind."  It  is  Stevenson  ;  it  is  Nashville ,  it 
is  Louisville  ;  it  is  home ;  it  is  Heaven  !  Alas,  for  it, 
how  they  falter  and  sleep  by  the  way.  And  every  one 
of  these  men  was  somebody's  boy  once  ;  had  a  mother 
once,  a  wife,  a  sister,  a  sweetheart,  but  "better  is  a 
friend  that  is  near  than  a  brother  afar  off,"  and  now 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  109 

comes  the  blessed  mission  of  women.  True,  there  are 
only  two  here  in  person,  but  how  many  in  heart  and 
work ! 

You  have  been  thinking,  my  sisters,  where  is  our 
work  in  all  these  scenes?  That  snowy  roll  of  linen; 
that  little  pillow  beneath  the  sufferer's  head ;  that  soft 
fold  across  the  gashed  breast ;  that  cooling  drink  the 
rude,  kind,  stalwart  nurse  is  putting  to  yonder  boy's 
white  lips ;  that  delicacy  this  poor  fellow  is  just  partak 
ing  of ;  that  dressing-gown  whose  broidered  hem  those 
long,  thin  fingers  are  toying  with ;  the  slippers,  a  world 
too  wide  for  the  thin,  faltering  feet ;  the  dish  of  fruit 
a  left  hand  is  slowly  working  at,  his  right  laid  upon  our 
Federal  altar  at  Chicamauga,  never  to  be  lifted  more. 
Your  tree,  my  sister,  bore  that  fruit ;  your  fingers 
wrought,  your  heart  conceived.  "  What  do  the  women 
say  about  us  boys  at  home?"  slowly  asked  a  poor 
wreck  of  a  lad,  as  I  sat  by  his  side.  That  brow  of  his 
ached,  I  know,  for  the  touch  of  a  loving  hand,  "and 
the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still."  At  the  moment  he 
asked  the  question  he  was  turning  over  a  little  silken 
needle-book  that  one  of  you  laughing  girls  made  one 
day,  and  tucked  in  a  corner  of  a  bag  labeled  "  U.  S. 
Sanitary  Commission."  On  the  cover  of  that  book  you 
had  playfully  wrought  the  words,  "my  bold  soldier 
boy."  I  silently  pointed  to  the  legend  ;  the  reply  struck 
home  to  his  heart,  and  he  burst  into  tears.  I  assure 


110  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

you  they  were  not  bitter  tears  he  shed,  and  as  he  wiped 
them  away  with  a  white  handkerchief  you  girls  had 
hemmed  for  him,  his  question  was  twice  answered  and 
he  was  content.  His  eyelids  closed  down,  his  breathing 
grew  regular;  he  had  fallen  asleep,  and  I  thought  it 
was  the  picture  of  the  "  Soldier's  Dream  "  over  again. 

You  hear  of  the  malappropriation  of  your  gifts,  but 
never  fear ;  one  grain  may  fall,  but  two  will  spring  up 
and  blossom  out  into  "  forget-me-nots."  Your  work  is 
everywhere.  Go  with  me  to  that  tent  standing  apart. 
It  is  the  Dead-house  tent.  Four  boys  in  their  brown 
blankets,  four  whitewood  coffins,  four  labels  with  four 
names  on  four  still  breasts.  Two  of  the  four  garments 
the  sleepers  wear  are  of  linen  from  your  stores,  stitched 
by  your  fingers.  Verily,  the  Ladies'  Soldiers'  Aid 
Societies  should  be  named  "  Mary,"  for  are  they  not, 
like  her  of  old,  "last  at  the  cross  and  earliest  at  the 
grave." 

NIGHT  RIDE  OF  THE   WOUNDED  BRIGADE. 

"When  can  I  go  home,  Doctor?"  is  the  question 
forever  shaped  by  the  lips  and  asked  by  the  eyes,  as  he 
goes  his  daily  rounds.  There  was  a  train  of  cars  at 
last — box  cars — cattle  cars,  if  yo'u  like  it  better — drawn 
up  opposite  the  hospital,  and  I  stood  there  on  a  bright 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  Ill 

morning  at  nine  o'clock,  as  the  four  hundred  poor  fel 
lows,  lame,  bandaged,  supported,  carried  outright,  came 
over  the  hill  to  take  the  train.  It  was  the  Wounded 
Brigade,  and  three  of  every  five  wore  some  token  of 
woman's  remembrance.  It  was  announced  to  them  the 
night  before  that  they  were  to  go  at  five,  and  there  was 
no  sleep  for  joy.  Some  of  them  had  actually  watched 
the  night  out,  in  the  open  air,  like  the  Chaldean  shep 
herds,  lest  by  some  chance  the  train  should  go  away 
without  them.  But  they  were  hopeful  and  heartful,  for 
they  would  go  by-and-by.  That  Wounded  Brigade 
made  my  eyes  dim  as  it  came ;  no  "  pomp  and  circum 
stance  "  now ;  no  martial  step,  no  rustling  banners,  no 
gleaming  arms.  I  should  have  been  less  than  human 
had  I  not  swallowed  my  heart  all  day  as  I  thought  of 
that  Brigade,  the  grandest  body  of  men  I  ever  saw  in 
my  life.  Well,  the  cars  were  floored  with  the  sick  and 
wounded,  and  we  moved  slowly  away,  and  I  must  tell 
you  that  all  along  that  weary  ride  of  twenty  hours  to 
Nashville,  it  was  the  thoughtful  gift  of  woman  that 
kept  their  hearts  up.  Not  on  the  field  of  Chicamauga, 
not  in  the  woods  of  Alabama,  not  on  the  train  in  Ten 
nessee,  could  I  get  out  of  sight  of  the  Aid  Society,  the 
Sanitary  Commission,  the  Florence  .Nightingales  of  the 
North.  I  want  to  describe  that  ride ;  how  the  boys 
went  as  cattle  go  ,  how  they  waited  hours  till  a  Major- 


112  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

General's  swift,  commodious  car  should  pass ;  how  they 
crept  along  at  the  rear  of  everything  alive. 

If  the  mile-posts  tell  truth,  there  are  one  hundred 
and  thirteen  of  them  between  the  Field  Hospital  at 
Stevenson  and  the  depot  at  Nashville,  but  if  the  train 
of  the  Wounded  Brigade  runs  by  honest  time,  there  are 
four  hundred.  When  I  saw  the  limping  squadron 
trailing  over  the  hill,  a  memory  brightened  into  sight. 
It  was  of  a  Division  drill,  when  the  old-fashioned  Gen 
eral — J.  D.  Morgan — sat  away  there  upon  his  horse,  and 
eight  thousand  men  stood  motionless  on  the  field  away 
here.  The  sun  glinted  grandly  from  the  hedges  of  bay 
onets,  and  the  colors  grew  deep  and  rich  in  the  light, 
and  the  breasts  of  dark  blue  were  built,  into  a  wall. 
Now  and  then  an  aid  galloped  out  from  the  group 
around  the  General,  and  down  the  line,  and  back  to  his 
position  again.  The  bugles  blew,  and  the  stately  line 
was  a  column  ;  a  wing  unfolded  here  and  a  wing  there ; 
they  flapped  together  as  noiselessly  as  an  eagle's;  it 
was  in  order  of  march  ;  it  was  in  line  of  battle,  and  the 
aids  dashed  out  and  the  bugles  blew  on,  and  then  the 
field  was  checkered  with  squares  like  a  chess-board  for 
a  mighty  game.  They  were  as  true  as  a  die  ;  a  mosaic 
of  men  ;  all  exact  as  a  page  of  Euclid  ;  you  looked  and 
the  evolution  was  complete.  There,  in  equal  spaces 
between  the  angles  of  the  squares,  frowned  a  battery. 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  113 

How  it  got  there  nobody  could  tell.  In  an  instant 
there  was  a  glitter  and  a  flash.  The  cavalry  were  upon 
them !  The  outer  rank  to  the  knee ;  the  next  bent ; 
the  next  erect,  and  so  the  cones  grew,  quick  as  a  turn 
of  the  kaleidoscope — cones  tipped  with  cold  steel,  and 
the  reflected  light  grew  steady  and  still.  There  was  a 
rustle  along  the  iron-clad  porcupines ;  the  batteries 
disappeared  ;  the  hedges  melted  away,  the  squares  were 
columns,  the  columns  were  lines,  and  away  marched 
the  battalions.  And  in  all  this  there  was  no  shout,  no 
oath,  no  loud  command.  The  General  away  yonder 
upon  his  horse  moulded  and  fashioned  the  thousands  at 
will,  as  if  he  had  been  a  sculptor  modeling  in  clay,  and 
he  was,  and  most  masterly  was  the  handling.  He  could 
have  taken  them  through  Jerusalem's  narrow  gate,  the 
"  Needle's  Eye  ; "  he  could  have  poured  them  through 
a  defile  like  water.  That  handling  of  men  is  a  rare  art. 
I  have  seen  a  Colonel  make  three  attempts  to  get  his 
regiment  through  a  fence  gap  two  rails  wide,  and  set  it 
to  "  throwing'"  the  fence,  at  last,  like  a  herd  of  unruly 
cattle !  Bullion  on  the  shoulders  of  fools  only  makes 
folly  more  conspicuous. 

It  was  to  that  brilliant  Division  drill  that  my  mind 
swung  back,  when  the  Wounded  Brigade  hove  in  sight. 
They  were  loaded  upon  the  train ;  two  platform  cars 
were  paved  with  them,  forty  on  a  car.  Seven  boxes 


114  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

were  so  packed  you  could  not  set  your  foot  down 
among  them  as  they  lay.  The  roofs  of  the  cars  were 
tiled  with  them,  and  away  we  pounded,  all  day,  all 
night,  into  the  next  morning,  and  then  Nashville. 
Half  of  the  men  had  not  a  shred  of  a  blanket,  and  it 
rained  steadily,  pitilessly.  What  do  you  think  of  plat 
form  cars  for  a  triumphal  procession  wherein  to  bear 
wounded  heroes  to  the  tune  of  "  the  soldier's  return 
from  the  war?"  Well,  what  I  would  come  at  is  this: 
the  stores  of  the  Sanitary  Commission  and  the  gifts  of 
women  kept  the  boys'  hearts  up  through  all  those 
weary,  drizzling  hours.  It  is  midnight,  and  the  attend 
ants  are  going  through  the  train  with  coffee  graced  with 
milk  and  sugar — think  of  that ! — two  fresh,  white,  crisp 
crackers  apiece,  and  a  little  taste  of  fruit.  Did  your 
hands  prepare  it,  dear  lady?  I  hope  so,  for  the  little 
balance  in  your  favor  set  down  in  the  ledger  of  GOD 
But  here  they  come  with  the  coffee ;  will  you  go  with 
them  ?  Clirnb  through  that  window  into  a  car  black  as 
the  Hole  of  Calcutta.  But  mind  where  you  step ;  the 
floor  is  one  layer  deep  with  wounded  soldiers.  As  you 
swing  the  lantern  round,  bandages  show  white  and 
ghastly  everywhere ;  bandages,  bandages,  and  now  and 
then  a  rusty  spot  of  blood.  What  worn-out,  faded 
faces  look  up  at  you.  They  rouse  like  wounded  crea 
tures  hunted  down  to  their  lairs  as  you  come.  The  tin 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  11$ 

cups  extended  in  all  sorts  of  hands  but  plump,  strong 
ones,  tinkle  all  around  you.  You  are  fairly  girdled  with 
a  tin  cup  horizon.  How  the  dull,  faint  faces  brighten 
as  those  cups  are  filled  !  On  we  go,  out  at  one  window, 
in  at  another,  stepping  gingerly  among  mangled  limbs. 
We  reach  the  platform  cars  creaking  with  their 
drenched,  chilled,  bruised  burdens,  and  I  must  tell  you 
that  one  poor  fellow  among  them  lay  with  a  tattered 
blanket  pinned  around  him ;  he  was  literally  sans 
culotte !  "  How  is  this?"  I  said.  "  Haven't  got  my 
descriptive  list — that's  what's  the  matter,"  was  the 
reply.  Double  allowance  all  around  to  the  occupants 
of  the  platforms,  and  we  retraced  our  steps  to  the  rear 
of  the  train.  You  should  have  heard  the  ghost  of  a 
cheer  that  rose  and  fluttered  like  a  feeble  bird,  as  we 
went  back.  It  was  the  most  touching  vote  of  thanks 
ever  offered  ;  there  was  a  little  flash  up  of  talk  for  a 
minute,  and  all  subsided  into  silence  and  darkness 
again.  Wearily  wore  the  hours  and  heavily  hammered 
the  train.  At  intervals  the  guard  traversed  the  roofs 
of  the  cars  and  pulled  in  the  worn-out  boys  who 
had  jarred  down  to  the  edges — pulled  them  in  toward 
the  middle  of  the  cars  without  waking  them !  What 
a  homeward  march  is  all  this  to  set  a  tune  to  ! 

By  some  error  in  apportionment  there  was  not  quite 
coffee  enough  for  all  on  deck,  and  two  slips  of  boys  on 


Il6  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

the  roof  of  the  car  where  I  occupied  a  corner  were  left 
without  a  drop.     Whenever  we  stopped,  and  that  was 
two  hours  here  and  three  hours  there,  waiting  for  this 
and  for  that — there  was  no  hurry — and  the  back  door 
was  slided  back  in  its  groove,  I  saw  two  hungry  faces 
stretched  down  over  the  car's  edge,  and  heard  two  fee 
ble  voices  crying,  "  We  have  had  nothing  up  here  since 
yesterday  noon,  we  two — there  are  only  us  two  boys — 
please  give  us  something.     Haven't  you  got  any  hard 
tack?"     I  heard    that  pitiful  appeal  to  the  officers  in 
charge  and  saw  those  faces  till  they  haunted  me,  and 
to-day  I   remember  those  plaintive  tones  as  if  I  were 
hearing  a  dirge.     I  felt  in  my  pockets  and  haversack  for 
a  cracker,  but  found  nothing.     I  really  hated  myself  for 
having  eaten  my  dinner  and  not  saved  it  for  them.     A 
further  search  was  rewarded  with  six  crackers  from  the 
Chicago  Mechanical  Bakery,  and  watching  my  chance 
when  Pete's  back  was  turned — the  cook  a  smutty  auto 
crat  was  Pete  in  his  way — I  took  a  sly  dip  with  a  basin 
into  the  coffee-boiler.     As  the  car  gave  a  lurch  in  the 
right  direction,  I  called  from  the  window,  "  Boys  !  "     I 
heard    them    crawling   to   the    edge,  handed    them  up 
the  midnight  supper,  "  Bully  for  you,"  they  said,  and  I 
saw  them  no  more.     When  the  train  reached  Nashville 
and  I  clambered  down  to  solid  ground  again,  I  looked 
up  at  the  roof;  it  was  bare.     And  how  do  you  like  the 
ride  of  the  Wounded  Brigade  ? 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  I  I/ 

I  do  not  write  this  in  a  censorious  spirit.  I  do  not 
know  but  it  was  the  best  that  could  be  done,  yet  I 
thought — you  cannot  help  thinking — that  the  passenger 
train  which  left  Stevenson  with  its  load  of  civilians,  sut 
lers,  contractors  and  what-nots,  at  six  dollars  a  man, 
one  hour  before  my  poor  Brigade,  and  pursued  its  way 
"  without  let  or  hindrance,"  reaching  Nashville  thirteen 
hours  before  it,  could  have  had  worthier  occupants  in 
the  persons  of  the  boys  in  white  bandages.  I  give  it  as 
one  of  the  pictures  of  war,  just  after  the  blossoming  out 
of  a  great  battle.  Men  and  women  with  tomb-stones 
in  their  left  breasts  need  it.  Men  and  women  who  are 
alive  and  warm  deserve  it  that  they  may  discern  more 
clearly  the  horrors  they  have  alleviated.  One  truth  you 
ought  not  to  forgive  me  should  I  fail  to  record  ;  during 
all  that  day  and  night  miserably  craunched  out  between 
wheel  and  rail,  I  did  not  hear  one  lisp  or  whisper  of 
complaint !  Are  Federal  soldiers  gods  or  are  they  only 
men  ?  Homer  could  have  moved  the  machinery  of  his 
Epic  with  them,  and  no  thanks  to  Apollo  "  of  the  silver 
bow." 

After  the  Sunday's  battle  at  Chicamauga,  I  heard  a 
young  soldier  who  had  been  in  the  battles,  and  who  was 
holding  a  splintered  arm  as  if  it  had  been  a  pet  baby, 
lightly  and  laughingly  talking  of  soldiers'  hardships,  and 
there  was  neither  grumble  nor  growl  in  the  whole  camp- 


Il8  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

fire  gossip.  "  Good  government,"  said  he,  "  of  course  it 
is.  When  we  boys  are  at  the  North  Pole  and  it  wants 
us  at  the  South,  why  it  carries  us  in  cattle  cars,  and  we 
ride  like  gentlemen.  But  when  we  have  only  four  or 
five  hundred  miles  to  go,  why  then  it  lets  us  frog  it ! " 
Among  all  the  words  born  in  camps,  " skedaddle"  and 
all,  commend  me  to  "  frog  it."  It  is  as  expressive  as  a 
picture. 

"When  I  entered  the  service,"  he  continued,  " says 
they,  'why,  you'll  have  a  chance  for  three  things  if  you 
enlist — study,  travel  and  promotion.'  "  And  so  he  rat 
tled  on,  and  a  merry  party  they  made  of  it. 

How  many  noble  women  have  threaded  like  rays  of 
sunshine  the  heavy  cloud  of  war,  women  of  the  nine 
teenth  centuiy  fit  to  be  named  with  Rachel  and  Ruth 
and  Florence  Nightingale.  No  better  epitaph  could  be 
traced  upon  their  tomb-stones  than  this : 

"EACH  SOLDIER'S  SISTER  AND  EACH  SUFFERER'S  FRIEND." 

As  with  the  "  Angel  of  the  Crimea,"  so  with  them — 
the  soldiers  kissed  the  shadows  that  fell  upon  the 
pillows  as  they  passed  by.  When  the  scenes  amid 
which  we  wait  and  labor  pass  into  the  grand  eternity 
of  the  historic  page,  the  heart  of  the  world  will  warm 
to  the  Women  of  the  North ;  soldierly  daring  and 
womanly  deeds  will  be  blended  forever ;  the  kiss  of  the 


IN    CAMP    AND     FIELD.  119 

daughters  will  not  stain  the  sword  of  the  sons,  and  the 
lost  Eden  of  old  will  smile  once  more  on  the  map  of 
the  globe. 


ARMY  CHAPLAINS. 

It  would  amuse  you  to  see  a  man,  almanac  in  hand, 
trying  to  find  out  the  day  of  the  month,  and  compelled 
to  call  for  aid  at  last.  That  thin  day-book  of  time,  if 
you  have  ever  happened  to  think  of  it,  presumes  on 
your  knowing  one  of  two  things,  the  day  of  the  month 
or  the  day  of  the  week.  Ignorant  of  both,  the 
almanac  and  the  Koran  are  pretty  nearly  alike — sealed 
books.  There  is  no  place  like  the  army  for  losing  your 
reckoning;  the  days  flow  by  in  an  unbroken  stream; 
a  month  passes  and  you  fancy  it  a  fortnight,  and  it  is 
no  unusual  thing  to  see  a  boy  going  about  among  his 
comrades  hunting  up  the  day  of  the  week.  The 
Sabbath,  that  sweetest  blossom  in  the  waste  of  time,  is 
trampled  by  hurrying  feet  unnoted.  It  came  and  went 
yesterday  and  you  find  it  out  to-morrow.  You  are  at 
sea,  and  though  you  may  never  have  been  a  saint,  yet 
when  the  Sundays  keep  dropping  out  of  the  calendar, 
so  like  withered  leaves,  it  makes  you  somewhat  uncom 
fortable  for  a  sinner. 


120  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

But  how  about  the  chaplains?  you  ask.  I  have 
met  three  dozen  men  whose  symbol  is  the  cross,  and  of 
that  number,  two  should  have  been  in  the  ranks,  two 
in  the  rear,  one  keeping  the  temperance  pledge,  one 
obeying  the  third  commandment — to  be  brief  about  it, 
five  repenting  and  eight  getting  common  sense.  The 
rest  were  efficient,  faithful  men.  Not  one  chaplain  in 
fifty,  perhaps,  lacks  the  paving-stones  of  good  inten 
tions,  but  the  complex  complaint  that  carries  off  the 
greatest  number  is  ignorance  of  human  nature  and 
want  of  common  sense.  Four  cardinal  questions,  I 
think,  will  exhaust  the  qualifications  for  a  chaplaincy : 
Is  he  religiously  fit  ?  Is  he  physically  fit  ?  Is  he 
acquainted  with  the  animal  "  man  "  ?  Does  he  possess 
honest  horse-sense?  Let  me  give  two  or  three  illus 
trative  pictures  from  life :  Chaplain  A.  has  a  puttering 
demon  ;  he  is  forever  not  letting  things  alone.  Passing 
a  group  of  boys,  he  hears  one  oath,  stops  short  in  his 
boots,  hurls  a  commandment  at  the  author,  hears 
another  and  reproves  it,  receives  a  whole  volley,  and 
retreats,  pained  and  discomfited.  Now,  Mr.  A.  is  a 
good  man,  anxious  to  do  duty,  but  that  habit  of  his, 
that  darting  about  camp  like  a  devil's  darning  needle 
with  a  stereotype  reproof  in  his  eye  and  a  pellet  of 
rebuke  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue,  bolts  every  heart 
against  him.  Chaplain  B.  preaches  a  sermon — regular 


IN    CAMP    AND     FIELD.  121 

army  fare,  too — on  Sunday,  buttons  his  coat  up  snugly 
under  his  chin  all  the  other  days  of  the  week,  draws  a 
thousand  dollars,  and  is  content.  Chaplain  C.  never 
forgets  that  he  is  C.,  "  with  the  rank  of  Captain," 
perfumes  like  a  civet  cat,  never  saw  the  inside  of  a 
dog-tent,  never  quite  considered  the  rank  and  file  fellow- 
beings.  Of  the  three,  the  boys  hate  the  first,  despise 
the  second,  and  d — n  the  third. 

"  Demoralize  "  has  become  about  as  common  a  thing 
in  the  army  as  a  bayonet,  though  the  boys  do  not 
always  get  the  word  right.  One  of  them — "  one  of 
'em  "  in  a  couple  of  senses — was  talking  of  himself  one 
night.  "  Maybe  you  wouldn't  think  it,  but  I  used  to 
be  a  regular,  straight-laced  sort  of  a  fellow,  but  since  I 
joined  the  army  I  have  got  damnably  decomposed !  " 
Now,  a  drunken  General  and  a  " decomposed"  Chaplain 
are  about  as  useless  lumber  as  can  cumber  an  army. 

There  is  Chaplain  D.,  well  equipped  with  heart,  but 
with  no  head  "  to  speak  of,"  and,  with  the  purest 
intentions,  a  perfect  provocative  to  evil.  It  was  next 
to  impossible  for  a  man  to  put  the  best  side  out  when 
he  was  by ;  a  curious  two-footed  diachylon  plaster,  he 
drew  everybody's  infirmities  to  the  surface.  I  think 
the  regiment  grew  daily  worse  and  worse,  and  where 
he  was,  words  were  sure  to  be  the  dirtiest,  jokes  the 
coarsest,  deeds  the  most  unseemly.  The  day  before 


122  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

the  battle  of  Chicamauga,  the  regiment  had  signed, 
almost  to  a  man,  a  paper  inviting  him  to  resign,  but  on 
the  days  of  the  battles  he  threw  off  his  coat  and 
carried  water  to  the  men  all  day.  In  the  hottest  places 
there  was  Chaplain  D.,  water  here,  water  there,  assist 
ing  the  wounded,  aiding  the  surgeons,  a  very  minister 
of  mercy.  That  '  invitation '  lighted  the  fire  under 
somebody's  coffee  kettle  on  Monday  night.  The 
Chaplain  had  struck  the  right  vein  at  last ;  the  boys 
had  found  something  to  respect  and  to  love  in  him, 
and  the  clergyman's  future  usefulness  was  insured. 
The  bond  between  Chaplain  and  men  was  sealed  on 
that  field  with  honest  blood  and  will  hold  good  until 
doomsday. 

One  noble  Illinois  chaplain,  who  died  in  the  harness, 
used  to  go  out  at  night,  lantern  in  hand,  among  the 
blended  heaps  of  the  battle-field,  and  as  he  went,  you 
could  hear  his  clear,  kind  voice,  "  any  wounded  here  ?  " 
and  so  he  made  the  terrible  rounds.  That  man  was 
idolized  in  life  and  bewailed  in  death.  Old  Jacob 
Trout,  a  Chaplain  of  the  Revolution,  and  who  preached 
a  five-minute  sermon  before  the  battle  of  Brandywine, 
was  the  type  of  the  man  that  soldiers  love  to  honor. 
His  faith  was  in  "the  sword  of  the  Lord  and  of 
Gideon,"  but  his  work  was  with  the  musket  of  Jacob 
Trout.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  the  Chaplain  should 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  123 

step  out  from  the  little  group  of  non-combatants  that 
belong  to  a  regiment,  but  I  do  say  that  he  must 
establish  one  point  of  contact,  quicken  one  throb  of 
kindred  feeling  between  the  men  and  himself,  or  his 
vocation  is  as  empty  of  all  blessing  and  honor  as  the 
old  wine-flasks  of  Herculaneum.  No  man  can  mis 
understand  what  I  have  written.  The  chaplaincy,  at 
best,  is  an  office  difficult  and  thankless.  It  demands 
the  best  men  to  fill  it  well  and  worthily,  men  whose 
very  presence  and  bearing  put  soldiers  upon  their 
honor ;  and  it  is  safe  to  say  that  he  who  is  fit  to  be  a 
chaplain  is  fit  to  rule  a  people.  How  nobly  many  of 
them  have  labored  in  the  Army  of  the  Cumberland ! 
Ministers  of  mercy,  right-hand  men  of  the  surgeons 
and  the  Nightingales,  bearers  of  the  cup  of  cold  water 
and  the  word  of  good  cheer,  the  strong  regiment  may 
be  the  Colonel's,  but  the  Wounded  Brigade  is  the 
Chaplain's. 

Writing  of  sermons,  did  you  ever  make  one  at  a 
field  preaching  at  the  Front  ?  If  not,  I  must  give  you 
a  homely  little  picture  I  saw  yesterday,  which  by  the 
calendar  was  Sunday.  Blundering  past  a  rusty  camp, 
the  tents  stained  and  rent,  I  came  upon  a  group  of 
about  as  many  as  met  of  old  "  in  an  upper  chamber/' 
and  not  an  officer  among  them,  unless  it  might  be  a 
sergeant.  They  were  seated  upon  logs,  and  the  Chap- 


124  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

lain  was  just  leading  off  in  a  hymn,  that  floated  up  and 
was  lost,  like  a  bird  in  a  storm,  amid  the  clash  of  bands 
and  the  rumble  of  army  wagons  in  the  valley  below. 
The  Chaplain  wore  a  hat  with  a  feather  in  it,  that  he 
might  have  been  born  in,  for  any  evidence  I  have  to 
the  contrary,  for  during  the  entire  services,  praise,  prayer 
and  preaching,  the  voice  came  out  from  beneath  the 
hat  with  a  feather  in  it.  Perhaps  it  would  have  struck 
you  as  irreverent,  but  it  may  be  that  he  feared  the  mis 
fortune  of  the  wolf  who  talked  hoarsely  with  little  Red 
Riding  Hood,  because  he  had  a  cold  in  his  head.  At 
the  heels  of  the  Chaplain  as  he  preached,  a  kettle  was 
bubbling  over  a  fire,  and  a  soldier-boy  on  his  knees 
beside  it  was  apparently  worshiping  the  hardware. 
But  he  was  no  idolater  for  all  that,  since  a  closer  look 
discovered  him  fishing  in  it  for  something  with  a  fork. 
Around  the  preacher,  but  just  out  of  sermon  range, 
boys  were  smoking,  darning,  chatting,  reading,  having 
a  frolic ;  the  voice  of  a  muleteer  came  distinctly  up 
from  below,  as  he  damned  the  hearts  of  his  six  in 
hand — for  no  teamster  I  ever  heard  was  so  wild  as  to 
swear  at  a  mule's  soul ;  the  passing  trains  of  ammuni 
tion  crushed  the  Chaplain's  sentences  in  two,  and,  now 
and  then,  whistled  a  truant  word  away  with  them,  but 
he  kept  right  on,  clear,  earnest,  sensible — no  matter  for 
the  hat  with  a  feather  in  it — and  I  could  not  help  feel- 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  125 

ing  a  profound  respect  for  the  preacher  and  the  little 
group  around  his  feet. 

To  mingle  with  the  men,  and  share  in  their  frolics  as 
well  as  their  sorrows,  without  losing  self-respect ;  to  be 
with  them  and  yet  not  of  them ;  to  get  at  their  hearts 
without  letting  them  know  it — these  are  indeed  tasks 
most  delicate  and  difficult,  requiring  a  tact  a  man  must 
be  born  with,  and  a  good,  honest  sense  that  can  never 
be  derived  from  Gill's  ''body  of  divinity."  "How  do 
you  like  Chaplain  S.?"  I  asked  of  a  group  of  Illinois 
boys  one  day.  "  We'll  freeze  to  him  every  time,"  was 
the  characteristic  reply,  and  not  unanticipated,  for  I 
had  seen  him  dressing  a  wound,  helping  out  a  blunder 
ing  boy,  whose  fingers  were  all  thumbs,  with  his  letter 
to  "the  girl  he  left  behind  him,'r  playing  ball,  running 
a  race,  as  well  as  heard  him  making  a  prayer  and 
preaching  a  sermon.  The  Surgeon  and  Chaplain  are 
co-workers.  I  said  the  former  should  report  to  the 
Women,  and  I  half  believe  that  the  Chaplain  should 
do  likewise. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  "FIRST  MAN." 

Snapshooting  is  the  squirrel-hunting  of  war,  and  it 
is  wonderful  how  utterly  forgetful  of  self  the  marksmen 
grow;  with  what  sportsman-like  eyes  they  watch  the 


126  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

grander  game,  and  with  what  coolness  and  accuracy 
they  bring  it  down.  But  indifferent  as  men  become  to 
human  life,  they  have  the  most  vivid  and  minute 
remembrance  of  the  first  man  they  brought  down  with 
3.  deliberate  aim ;  often  noting,  in  the  instant  of  time 
preceding  the  fatal  shot,  the  fashion  of  features,  color 
of  eyes  and  hair,  even  the  expression  of  face,  all  painted 
in  a  picture  that  shall  last  the  life  out. 

"  My  first  man,"  said  an  artilleryman  to  me,  "  I  saw 
but  twenty  seconds  and  shall  remember  him  forever.  I 
was  standing  by  my  gun,  when  an  infantry  soldier 
rushed  up  and  made  a  lunge  with  the  bayonet  at  one 
of  the  horses.  I  whipped  out  my  revolver,  took  him 
through  the  breast,  he  threw  up  his  hands,  gave  me  the 
strangest  look  in  the  world  and  fell  forward  upon  his 
face.  He  had  blue  eyes,  brown,  curling  hair,  a  dark 
mustache  and  a  handsome  face." 

The  gunner  paused  a  moment  and  added :  "  I 
thought  the  instant  I  shot  that  I  should  have  loved 
that  man  had  I  known  him.  I  tell  you  what — this 
war  is  terrible  business."  And  so  it  is — and  so  it  is — 
but  "they  that  take  the  sword  shall  perish  by  the 
sword." 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  I2/ 


PA  YMA  S  TERS  A  ND  JE  WELR  Y. 

The  coming  of  no  officer,  except  a  well-beloved  com 
manding  General,  is  so  heartily  welcomed  by  the  boys, 
as  that  of  those  gilt-leafed  gentlemen  with  the  iron 
trunks,  the  opening  of  which  gives  everything  the  color 
of  spring,  bringing  the  "  green  back "  to  the  most 
withered  prospect.  An  epitaph  for  a  modern  Pay 
master  can  be  easily  stolen  from  Halleck's  sweetest 
little  poem,  as  thus : 

"  Green  be  the  turf  above  him." 

Just  finishing  the  inscription,  I  read  it  and  the  expla 
nation  to  a  rough  boy  near  by  who  was  making  jewelry. 
He  looked  up  with,  "  Old  Halleck  write  that  ?  "  "  Fitz- 
Greene,"  said  I.  "  That's  what's  the  matter,"  said  he, 
and  worked  away  at  his  jewel  again. 

"  Jewelry,"  you  think  and  wonder,  and  perhaps  it 
may  be  worth  an  explanation.  The  Tennessee  and 
Stone  rivers  are  strewn  with  shells  of  rare  beauty  and 
exquisite  coloring;  blue,  green,  pink  and  pure  pearl. 
If  you  look  in  any  boy's  knapsack  you  will  be  quite 
sure  to  find  a  shell  in  it.  Of  these  queer,  broken,  little 
chests  of  former  life,  the  soldiers  make  rings,  pins, 
hearts,  arrows,  chains,  crosses;  and  to  see  the  rough 


128  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

tools  they  use,  and  then  note  the  elegance  of  form  and 
finish  in  the  things  they  make,  would  set  the  means 
and  the  results  incredibly  apart.  With  a  flat  stone  for 
a  polishing  table,  they  grind  down  the  shell,  and  then 
with  knife  and  file  shape  little  fancies  that  would  not 
be  out  of  place  on  a  jeweler's  velvet,  and  beautiful  sou 
venirs  of  fields  of  battle.  Every  ring  and  heart  has  its 
bit  of  a  story  the  maker  is  not  reluctant  to  tell.  This 
little  touch  of  the  fine  arts  gives  to  camps  a  pleasant, 
home-like  look,  and  I  have  seen  many  a  soldier  putting 
the  .final  polish  to  a  pearl  trinket  by  the  light  of  his 
inch-of-candle  flaring  from  a  bayonet,  as  earnest  over 
his  work  as  if  the  shell  possessed  the  charm  of  Alad 
din's  lamp,  and  rubbing  it  would  summon  spirits. 


HEARING  FROM  HOME. 

Occupation  is  a  grand  thing,  and  quite  as  important 
to  the  tone  and  heart  of  an  army  as  hard  bread  and 
bacon.  The  monster  against  which  Dr.  Kane  fought 
so  successfully  in  the  Arctic  night,  with  theatre  and 
frolic,  wanders  listlessly  up  and  down  the  camps. 
Would  you  believe — and  yet  it  is  true — that  many  a 
poor  fellow  in  the  Army  of  the  Cumberland  has  liter 
ally  died  to  go  home ;  died  of  the  terrible,  unsatisfied 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  129 

longing,  home-sickness?  That  it  lies  at  the  heart  of 
many  a  disease  bearing  a  learned  name  ?  It  is  languor, 
debility,  low  fever,  loss  of  appetite,  sleeplessness,  death, 
and  yet,  through  all,  it  is  only  that  sad  thing  they  call 
Nostalgia.  Who  shall  dare  to  say  that  the  boy  who 
"  lays  him  down  and  dies,"  a-hungered  and  starving  for 
home,  does  not  fall  as  well  and  truly  for  his  country's 
sake  as  if  a  bullet  had  found  his  heart  out  ?  Against  it 
the  surgeon  combats  in  vain,  for  "  who  can  minister  to 
a  mind  diseased?" 

The  loved  ones  at  home  have  something  to  answer 
for  in  this  business,  and  it  pains  me  to  think  that  more 
than  one  man  has  let  his  life  slip  out  of  a  grasp  too 
weak  to  hold  it,  just  because  his  dearest  friends  did  not 
send  him  a  prescription  once  a  week,  price  three  cents — 
a  letter  from  home.  Is  some  poor  fellow  sinking  at 
heart  because  you  do  not  write  to  him  ?  If  there  is,  lay 
•my  letter  down  at  once  and  write  your  own,  and  may 
He  who  sent  a  messenger  all  the  way  from  Heaven  to 
earth  with  glad  tidings,  forgive  you  for  deferring  a  hope 
to  some  soldier-boy.  You  would  not  wonder  at  my 
warmth  had  you  seen  that  boy  waiting  and  waiting,  as 
I  have,  for  one  little  word  from  somebody.  Too  proud 
to  own,  and  yet  too  sincere  to  quite  conceal  it,  he  tries 
to  strangle  the  thought  of  home,  and  goes  into  the 
battle,  whence  he  never  comes  forth.  An  Indiana 


130  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

soldier  was  struck  in  the  breast  at  Chicamauga  and  fell. 
The  bullet's  errand  was  about  done  when  it  reached 
him ;  it  pierced  coat  and  underclothing,  and  there  was 
force  enough  left  in  it  to  wound  if  not  to  kill  him.  But 
it  had  to  work  its  way  through  a  precious  package  of 
nine  letters,  indited  by  one  dear  heart  and  traced  by 
one  dear  hand  ;  that  done,  the  bullet's  power  expended, 
there  it  lay  asleep  against  the  soldier's  breast !  Have 
you  been  making  such  a  shield,  dear  lady,  for  anybody? 
Take  care  that  it  does  not  lack  one  letter  of  being 
bullet-proof. 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND   SCHOOLMA'AM. 

The  love  for  the  old  flag  gushes  out  sometimes  in  the 
most  unexpected  places  like  a  spring  in  the  desert,  and 
many  a  time  have  Federal  prisoners  been  startled  into 
tears  at  finding  a  friendly  heart  beating  close  beside 
them.  A  body  of  Federal  prisoners  had  reached 
Rome,  Georgia,  en  route  for  Richmond.  Weary, 
famished,  thirsting,  they  were  herded  like  cattle  in  the 
street  under  the  burning  sun,  a  public  show.  It  was  a 
gala  day  in  that  modern  Rome.  The  women  mag 
nificently  arrayed  came  out  and  pelted  them  with  balls 
of  cotton,  and  with  such  sneers  and  taunts  as,  "  So  you 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  131 

have  come  to  Rome,  have  you,  you  Yankees  ?  How 
do  you  like  your  welcome?" — and  then  more  cotton 
and  more  words.  The  crowds  and  the  hours  came  and 
went,  but  the  mockery  did  not  intermit,  and  the  poor 
fellows  were  half  out  of  heart.  A  Major,  faint  and  ill, 
had  stepped  back  a  pace  or  two  and  leaned  against  a 
post,  when  he  was  lightly  touched  upon  the  arm.  As 
he  looked  around  mentally  nerving  himself  for  some 
more  ingenious  insult,  a  fine-looking,  well-dressed  boy 
of  twelve  stood  at  his  elbow,  his  frank  face  turned  up 
to  the  Major's.  "  And  he,  too?  "  thought  the  officer. 

With  a  furtive  glance  at  a  guard  who  stood  with  his 
back  to  them,  the  lad,  pulling  the  Major's  skirt,  and 
catching  his  breath  boy-fashion,  said,  "  Are  you  from 
New  England?"  "I  was  born  in  Massachusetts,"  was 
the  reply.  "  So  was  my  Mother,"  returned  the  boy, 
brightening  up ;  "  she  was  a  New  England  girl,  and 
she  was  what  you  call  a  '  school-ma'am  '  up  North  ;  she 
married  my  father  and  I'm  their  boy,  but  how  she  does 
love  New  England  and  the  Yankees  and  the  old 
United  States,  and  so  do  I ! " 

The  Major  was  touched,  as  well  he  might  be,  and  his 
heart  warmed  to  the  boy  as  to  a  young  brother,  and  he 
took  out  his  knife,  severed  a  button  from  his  coat,  and 
handed  it  to  him  for  a  remembrance.  "  Oh,  I've  got 
half  a  dozen  just  like  it.  See  here !  *'  and  he  took  from 
his  pocket  a  little  string  of  gifts  of  other  boys  in  blue. 


132  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

"  My  mother  would  like  to  see  you,"  he  added,  "  and 
I'll  go  and  tell  her." 

"What  are  you  doing-  here?"  growled  the  guard, 
suddenly  wheeling  round  upon  him,  and  the  boy 
slipped  away  into  the  crowd  and  was  gone.  Half  an 
hour  elapsed  and  a  lovely  lady,  accompanied  by  the 
little  patriot,  passed  slowly  down  the  sidewalk  next  to 
the  curb-stone.  She  did  not  pause,  she  did  not  speak ; 
if  she  smiled  at  all  it  was  faintly ;  but  she  handed  to 
one  and  another  of  the  prisoners  bank-notes  as  she 
went.  As  they  neared  the  Major,  the  boy  gave  him  a 
significant  look,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  that's  my  New 
England  mother."  The  eyes  of  the  elegant  lady  and 
the  poor,  weary  officer  met  for  an  instant,  and  she 
passed  away  like  a  vision. 


DRESSING  FOR  BATTLE. 

When  soldiers  address  themselves  to  battle,  they 
generally  go  like  men  on  business  bound ;  the  old 
blouse  is  good  enough  ;  the  old  hat  will  answer ;  they 
look  to  their  guns  a  thought  more  critically;  they 
tighten  their  belts  a  little,  and  they  are  ready.  Officers 
seldom  wear  their  finery  into  the  field  ,  the  torn  bars, 
the  withered  leaf  the  clipped  eagle,  the  dim  star,  will 


IN     CAMP    AND    FIELD.  133 

do ;  but  it  is  not  always  so.  I  have  known  a  soldier 
make  a  most  careful  toilette  on  the  eve  of  battle, 
attiring  himself  in  his  cleanest  and  best,  as  if  he  were 
going  home.  Perhaps  the  chance  of  such  a  thing  may 
have  drifted  into  mind  ;  perhaps  he  had  half  a  thought 
of  anticipating  the  last  hasty  offices  due  the  dead 
soldier ;  but  I  have  been  so  often  surprised  out  of  my 
preconceived  notions  of  what  men  are  thinking  who  set 
forth  to  fight  that  I  have  ceased  to  entertain  them 
altogether.  General  Grant  is  a  quiet  gentleman  in  a 
snuff-colored  coat ;  Wood  is  twin-brother  to  his  orderly ; 
he  went  into  battle  in  a  shocking  hat,  a  blouse 
"  hutched  up  "  like  a  Norwegian  woman's  boddice,  and 
his  pistol  thrust  in  his  belt  like  a  whaler's  knife ;  the 
commanding  General  hurled  the  Fourth  Corps  against 
Mission  Ridge  in  a  uniform  too  sleek  and  slippery  for  a 
young  Lieutenant's  callow  dignity.  I  know  one 
General,  however,  who  puts  on  his  holiday  apparel 
when  he  goes  to  battle.  There  is  a  glitter  of  buttons 
and  stars  where  he  is,  and  they  were  seen  glancing  like 
meteors  at  Stone  River,  Chicamauga  and  Mission 
Ridge,  in  the  thick  of  the  fight.  "  I  want  my  men  to 
know  where  I  am,"  he  said,  adding  with  a  smile,  "  and 
then  those  baubles  light  a  man  to  danger  and  duty 
wonderfully  well.  He  cannot  decently  run  by  star 
light  ! ''  And  there  was  something  in  the  idea  worth 


134  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

thinking  about.  It  puts  a  man  upon  his  honor;  we 
somehow  associate  mean  attire  with  mean  actions,  and 
it  is  as  easy  to  understand  the  feeling  of  the  General  as 
of  the  great  composer  who,  whenever  he  sat  down  to 
dash  off  an  immortal  score,  arrayed  himself  in  the 
garments  wherein  he  appeared  before  the  king. 


SURVEYING  ON  HORSEBACK. 

There  are  a  thousand  things  about  the  preparations 
for  a  battle  that  never  challenge  public  admiration. 
Among  them  is  the  topographical  reconnoissance  of  the 
enemy's  countny,  involving  slow  science,  quick  move 
ments,  quicker  wit,  and  the  dash  and  courage  of  a 
scout.  Surveying  on  horseback  and  at  a  quadrupc- 
dante-pu  gait — in  plain  phrase,  a  smart  Canterbury 
gallop — is  one  of  the  achievements  that  would  have 
disturbed  the  polarity  of  the  sober-going  old  compass- 
bearers  that  were  said  to  "run  lines"  when  they  only 
meant  they  plodded  them. 

I  have  upon  the  drum-head  under  my  eye — a  bit  of 
parchment,  by-the-way,  upon  which  the  long-roll  has 
been  thrice  beaten — a  map  of  all  the  region  round 
about,  from  west  oi  Mission  Ridge  to  east  of  the 
Chicamauga,  and  from  Chattanooga  to  a  point  below 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  135 

Crawfish  Spring,  an  area  of  full  forty  miles.  It  is  the 
work  of  a  well  known  pioneer  and  civil  engineer  in  the 
Northwest.  In  the  immediate  service  of  the  com 
manding  General,  he  is  an  improved  edition  of  Cooper's 
"  Pathfinder "  escaped  from  the  pages  of  the  novelist. 
Think  of  a  man's  entering  a  farmhouse,  demanding  to 
see  the  title-deed  of  the  owner,  finding  a  "corner" 
therefrom,  and  then  mounting  his  horse  and  dashing 
away,  compass  in  _hand,  at  the  head  of  an  escort  of 
hard-riding  dragoons,  counting  his  horse's  bounds  as  he 
goes,  and  so  galloping  along  the  line  to  the  next 
"witness,"  as  the  surveyors  name  it.  Think  of  his 
noting  every  feature  of  the  surface,  the  woods,  the 
fields,  the  hills,  the  vales,  the  distances,  and  delineating 
everything,  till  a  map  to  fight  by  grows  beneath  his 
steady  hand.  Think  of  his  doing  all  this,  in  forty-eight 
hours,  in  a  region  where  bullets  might  swarm  any 
minute  like  bees,  and  where  they  did  fly  like  hornets. 
And  this,  incredible  as  it  looks,  is  only  the  plain  story 
in  brief  of  an  important  service — one  that  has  in  it  a 
dash  of  danger  and  romance  that  almost  turns  the 
loving  needle  into  the  flashing  sword.  This,  at  least : 
he  "  prospected  "  a  region  that  proved  as  rich  as  any 
other  region  yet,  in  Federal  valor  and  Federal  blood. 


136  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 


OLD-TIME  FORTS  AND  NEW. 

There  is  hardly  anything  about  the  mechanism  of 
war  that  so  disappoints  a  civilian  as  his  first  glimpse  of 
a  modern  fort.  He  thinks  of  towers  and  turrets  and 
walls  of  stone ;  he  sees  a  heap  of  reddish  earth,  tangled 
round  the  base  with  an  ugly  hedge  of  dry  branches, 
and  wrinkled  with  a  deep  trench.  Wicker-work  bas 
kets — gabions,  in  military  parlance — filled  with  earth, 
are  ranged  along  the  parapet ;  the  smutty  nose  of  a 
gun  appears  at  breaks  in  the  clay,  here  and  there ;  he 
finds  it  fashioned  like  the  crust  of  an  immense  chicken 
pie,  though  verily  they  that  are  in  it  are  no  chickens ; 
a  flagstaff,  taken  root  in  the  hottest  spot  of  the  bare 
and  trodden  area,  flaunts  a  flag ;  men  lie  asleep  in 
the  shadow  of  the  wall ;  a  solitary  sentry  paces  to  and 
fro,  casting  a  glance  at  the  landscape  as  he  turns  upon 
his  heel.  It  is  Fort  Defiance  or  Albany  or  Ellsworth ; 
it  has  a  story ;  it  has  uttered  a  voice ;  it  has  been 
wrapped  in  a  turban  of  cloud  and  thunder  and  thick 
lightnings ;  it  has  lashed  a  thousand  men  to  the  right 
about,  but  our  civilian  can  hardly  see  how  it  all  is.  It 
has  none  of  the  pomp  of  war,  and  but  precious  little  of 
the  circumstance.  The  earth  hereaway  works  as  kindly 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  137 

into  fortifications  as  the  clay  in  the  hands  of  the  potter ; 
much  of  it  has  a  clear,  red  tint,  and  it  will  lie  as  you 
leave  it,  the  jutting  angle,  the  firm  battlement,  the 
smooth  wall,  with  a  look  as  finished  as  if  it  came  from 
Paisley.  Great  masses  of  barren  earth,  where  nothing 
grows  but  one  strange  flower  that  blossoms  from  a  bare 
and  barkless  spar  along  the  ramparts.  And  yet, 
homely  and  simple  as  it  seems,  nothing  will  so  take  the 
vim  out  of  a  shot  as  a  heap  of  earth.  It  plunges  into 
it — thug — and  is  dead.  It  is  pounding  dirt  with  ham 
mers  that  forever  fly  off  the  handle.  There  are  no 
splinters  to  impale  you  ;  a  ball  may  sand  your  letter  for 
you  a  little  prematurely,  but  a  few  handy  shovels  will 
heal  the  wound  in  twenty  minutes. 

But  there  is  a  fort  on  the  Potomac  almost  within 
bugle  call  of  Mount  Vernon  that  will  gratify  any  little 
poetic  sentiment  this  age  of  knocks  may  have  left  you : 
Fort  Washington.  It  was  there  in  1812;  for  anything 
I  can  see  it  may  be  there  in  the  twentieth  century. 
Of  hewn  stone,  time-stained,  massive,  angular,  moss- 
grown,  it  looks  like  a  castle  in  a  picture.  The  parapet 
is  dotted  with  guns  in  barbette  ;  through  the  narrow 
embrasures  in  the  walls  below,  looking  like  slits  for  air 
in  a  dungeon,  you  see  muzzles  of  more  guns  in  the 
casemates,  Here  are  your  demi-lunes  and  your  bas- 


138  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

tions,  your  sallyport,  glacis  and  counterscarp,  and  your 
everything  that  makes  up  a  fine  old  figure  in  solid 
geometry.  You  pant  up  the  mountain  path  to  the 
grand  entrance  ;  columns  and  capitals  of  stone  are  on 
each  side  ;  you  cross  a  narrow  bridge  and  come  bolt 
against  a  portcullis  of  a  door  made  of  massive  timbers, 
a  door,  as  the  song  has  it, 

" as  high  as  the  sky, 

To  let  King  George  and  his  troops  pass  by," 

though  no  royal  George  ever  did.  In  this  ponderous 
gate  is  a  little  door,  something  like  Saint  Peter's 
wicket,  that  he  opens  to  see  who's  there.  You  enter 
and  find  yourself  in  an  arched  stone  passage ;  at  your 
right  a  wheel  and  chains ;  above  your  head  pulleys  and 
more  chains.  You  begin  to  get  the  idea ;  you  are 
standing,  perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  your  life,  upon  a 
drawbridge,  and  you  fumble  in  your  memory  for  the 
shout  of  some  old  castellan,  "  What,  warder,  ho !  down 
with  the  portcullis  !  Up  with  the  drawbridge  !  "  The 
wind  draws  cool  through  that  arch  of  stone  as  if  it 
came  from  a  sunless  corridor.  The  sentinel  presents 
arms  and  you  are  out  in  the  beaten  area  of  the  old 
Fort.  At  your  left  and  front  are  the  balconied  build 
ings  of  the  officers'  quarters,  and  beyond,  those  of  the 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  139 

men.     You  see  the  commandant,  a  fine,  gray  old  Colo 
nel,  who  looks  as  if  he  might  be  the  very 

Colonel 


Who  galloped  through  the  white  infernal 
Powder-cloud," 

in  continental  days. 

You  climb  stone  steps  to  the  parapet;  you  visit 
kennel  after  kennel  of  the  surly  dogs  of  war.  You 
mount  the  tower  over  the  gateway ;  more  dogs  and  a 
sentinel,  his  bayonet  as  hot  as  a  toasting-fork  in  the 
sun.  Descending,  you  pass  dungeon-like  doors  going 
to  no  end  of  mysterious  cells  for  the  villainous  salt 
petre  ;  piles  of  solid  shot  resembling  inverted  clusters  of 
fabulous  grapes.  And  what  a  splendid  view  you  have 
from  the  tower ! — the  ships  and  boats  forever  sliding  up 
and  down,  and  the  Potomac  stretching  away  like  an 
arm  of  the  sea,  and  the  tide  forever  coming  and  going ; 
you  stand  out  upon  the  bluff  and  gaze  toward  Mount 
Vernon.  . 

A    FLASH  OF  SUNSHINE. 

Now  and  then,  a  little  human  smile  brightens  war's 
grim  visage,  like  a  flash  of  sunshine  in  an  angry  day. 
The  amenities  of  battle  are  so  few,  how  precious  they 
become !  Let  me  give  you  that  little  "  touch  of  nature 


140  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

that  makes  the  whole  world  kin."  The  3d  Ohio, 
belonging  to  Streight's  command,  entered  a  town  en 
route  for  Richmond,  prisoners  of  war.  Worn  down, 
famished,  hearts  heavy  and  haversacks  light,  they  were 
herded  together,  "  like  dumb,  driven  cattle,"  to  wear 
out  the  night.  A  rebel  regiment,  the  54th  Virginia, 
being  camped  near  by,  many  of  its  men  came  strolling 
about  to  see  the  sorry  show  of  poor,  supperless 
Yankees.  They  did  not  stare  long,  but  hastened  away 
to  camp,  and  came  streaming  back  with  coffee-kettles, 
corn  bread  and  bacon — the  best  they  had,  and  all  they 
had — and  straightway  little  fires  began  to  twinkle, 
bacon  was  suffering  the  martyrdom  of  the  Saint  of  the 
Gridiron,  and  the  aroma  of  coffee  rose  like  the  fragrant 
cloud  of  a  thank-offering.  Loyal  guests  and  rebel 
hosts  were  mingled ;  our  hungry  boys  ate  and  were 
satisfied,  and,  for  that  one  night,  our  common  humanity 
stood  acquitted  of  the  heavy  charge  of  total  depravity 
with  which  it  is  blackened.  Night  and  our  boys 
departed  together;  the  prisoners  in  due  time  were 
exchanged,  and  were  encamped  within  rifle-shot  of 
Kelly's  Ferry,  on  the  bank  of  the  Tennessee.  But 
often,  around  the  camp-fires,  I  have  heard  them  talk 
of  the  54th  Virginia,  that  proved  themselves  so 
immeasurably  better  "  than  a  brother  afar  off:"  heard 
them  wonder  where  they  were,  and  discuss  the  chance 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  141 

that  they  might  ever  meet.  When  they  denounced  the 
"  damnable  Johnny  Rebs,"  the  name  of  one  regiment, 
you  may  be  sure,  was  tucked  away  in  a  snug  place, 
quite  out  of  the  range  of  hard  words. 

And  now  comes  the  sequel  that  makes  a  beautiful 
poem  of  the  whole  of  it.  On  the  day  of  the  storming 
of  Mission  Ridge,  among  the  prisoners  was  the  54th 
Virginia,  and  on  the  Friday  following,  it  trailed  away 
across  the  pontoon  bridge  and  along  the  mountain 
road,  nine  miles  to  Kelly's  Ferry.  Arrived  there,  it 
settled  upon  the  bank  like  bees,  awaiting  the  boat.  A 
week  elapsed,  and  I  followed  suit.  The  Major  of  the 
3d  Ohio  welcomed  me  to  the  hospitalites  of  his 
quarters,  and  almost  the  first  thing  he  said  was,  "  You 
should  have  been  here  last  Friday;  you  missed  the 
denouement  of  that  beautiful  little  drama  of  ours. 
Will  you  believe  that  the  54th  Virginia  has  been  here  ? 
Some  of  the  boys  were  on  duty  at  the  Landing  when 
it  arrived.  *  What  regiment  is  this  ? '  they  asked,  and 
when  the  reply  was  given,  they  started  for  camp  like 
quarter-horses,  and  shouted  as  they  rushed  in  and  out 
among  the  smoky  cones  of  the  '  Sibleys,'  '  the  54th 
Virginia  is  at  the  Ferry ! '  The  camp  swarmed  in 
three  minutes.  Treasures  of  coffee,  bacon,  sugar,  beef, 
preserved  peaches,  everything,  were  turned  out  '  in 


142  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

force/    and    you    may   believe   they   went    laden   with 
plenty,  at  the  double-quick  to  the  Ferry." 

The  same  old  scene,  and  yet  how  strangely  changed. 
The  twinkling  fires,  the  grateful  incense,  the  hungry 
captives,  but  guests  and  hosts  had  changed  places ;  the 
star-lit  folds  floated  aloft  for  "the  bonny  blue  flag;"  a 
debt  of  honor  was  paid  to  the  uttermost  farthing.  If 
they  had  a  triumph  of  arms  at  Chattanooga,  hearts 
were  trumps  at  Kelly's  Ferry.  And  there  it  was  and 
then  it  was  that  horrid  war  smiled  a  human  smile,  and 
a  grateful,  gentle  light  flickered  for  a  moment  on  the 
point  of  the  bayonet. 


A   LITTLE  PICTURE. 

•• 

Even  rough  war  has  its  bits  of  poetry,  and  to  show 
how  coarse  and  cheap  materials  may  make  a  pretty 
picture,  take  the  following :  I  was  down  on  the  bank 
of  the  Tennessee  one  bright  day,  and  at  my  feet,  with 
their  square  noses  out  of  the  water  upon  the  rocky 
ledges,  lay  a  school  of  pontoon  boats,  like  a  group  of 
ungainly  crocodiles.  The  architecture  of  one  of  those 
boats  would  give  a  yacht-fancier  a  fit  of  indigestion; 
of  all  the  works  of  the  ship-builder  it  is  a  menial 
donkey,  with  the  proportions  and  finish  of  a  watering- 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  143 

trough.  Busy  about  these  boats  were  as  hearty  and 
dirty  a  set  of  boys  as  ever  fingered  a  rifle,  and  in  each 
boat  was  a  stained  rag  of  a  dog-tent.  Well,  the  order 
came  to  move  off  up  the  river,  sixteen  miles,  to  Battle 
Creek,  where  the  pontoon  bridge  was  to  be  laid  down ; 
and  the  square  noses  backed  off  the  rocks,  one  after 
another ;  the  dingy  dog  tents  were  bent  on  improvised 
spars  of  red  cedar,  the  old  flag  floated  from  the  leading 
boat  in  far-away  mockery  of  the  Admiral's  flag-ship, 
and  so  they  slipped  off,  in  a  huddle  at  first,  but 
gradually  streaming  out  and  standing  away,  a  fleet  of 
sixty  sail.  The  dirty  canvas  grew  clean  in  the  sun 
shine ;  distance  smoothed  the  rude  boats;  the  red 
woolen  of  the  boys  turned  into  the  gay  jackets  of 
gondoliers;  they  swept  up  to  the  bend  of  the  river, 
cutting  the  still  shadows  of  the  willows  that  fringed 
the  water,  grew  beautiful  and  strange  and  melted  out 
of  sight. 

The  scene  but  an  hour  ago  so  full  of  life  and  noise 
was  silent ;  nothing  audible  but  the  stamping  of  the 
horse  that  brought  me  there  and  the  lapse  of  the  lazy 
water.  A  hawk  far  up  in  heaven  floated  slowly  round 
and  round ;  across  the  river  a  thin  spiral  of  smoke  rose 
above  the  trees ;  confiding  in  the  stillness,  a  dappled 
lizard  glided  along  the  log  whereon  I  was  seated, 


144  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

scanning  me  with  his  curious  jet  bead  of  an  eye,  and  as 
instinct  with  motion  as  a  speckled  trout. 

It  was  a  Southern  noon  in  a  Southern  wilderness,  the 
last  boat  had  loitered  out  of  sight,  and  I  made  my 
lonely  way  back  through  the  woods,  along  the  red 
ribbon  of  a  road,  stopped  at  a  wayside  well  by  a 
deserted  cabin,  and  drew  up  the  white,  warped  bucket 
by  its  rope  of  grapevine,  glad  of  the  creak  of  the 
parched  windlass  calling  for  water,  and  rode  on  till  the 
rattle  of  the  picket's  piece  made  music  and  I  was  again 
at  home  within  the  living,  bristling  girdle  of  the  old 
flag. 


"DINNER    TO    THE  FRONT." 

The  Front — syllable  oftenest  written,  least  under 
stood — is  an  iron  veneering  mounted  upon  many  legs. 
The  moon's  census  reports  nothing  but  a  man.  Life  at 
the  Front  and  life  in  the  moon  are  alike.  They  are 
both  worlds  without  women — such  women  as  your 
mother  and  mine.  The  Front  trails  its  kitchen  after  it 
like  the  train  of  a  comet,  and  trundles  its  dinner  across 
sovereign  States. 

If  we  cannot  fight  battles  without  powder,  neither 
can  we  win  them  without  pork ;  bread  and  bayonets  go 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  145 

together,  and  so  whatever  pertains  to  an  army's  sup 
plies  possesses  hardly  less  interest  than  the  army  itself. 
There  is  something  upon  the  map  to  which  the  eye  will 
turn  quite  as  earnestly  as  to  Chattanooga.  It  will  be 
sure  to  trace  that  slender  thread  of  communication 
drawn  across  two  States,  and  to  see  in  it  the  life-nerve 
of  the  Army.  I  give  you  a  plain,  unpainted  deal  box 
to  bear  with  you  to  Chattanooga  for  the  waiting  boys. 
You  shall  go  with  it  through  a  breadth  of  two  hundred 
and  fifty  miles,  where  guerrillas  range ;  shall  cross  three 
States  and  three  great  rivers ;  shall  encounter  a  thou 
sand  perils  and  an  hundred  thousand  foes  who  would 
care  more  to  destroy  that  unpainted  box  than  to  save 
your  soul  alive.  You  shall  be  twelve  days  on  the  way, 
and  the  wonderful  thing  about  the  journey  is  that 
you  reach  your  destination  at  all.  The  Chattanooga 
Railroad  has  grown  historical.  In  its  dilapidated, 
bullet-riddled  cars,  over  the  worn-out,  ragged  rails, 
hostile  legions  have  fled  and  Federal  columns  moved 
on.  These  seats  have  sustained,  in  their  turn,  Bragg, 
Breckenridge  and  Johnston,  Buell,  Rosecrans  and 
Grant.  What  victors  and  what  vanquished,  what 
burdens  of  hope  and  strength,  what  heavy  freights  of 
pain,  what  wounded  and  what  dead  have  passed  along 
those  tattered  bars  of  iron  !  And  their  office  was  never 
more  important  to  Federal  triumph  than  when  over 


146  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

them  went  that  plain  deal  box,  not  filled  with  jewels 
or  medals  of  honor,  but  only  with  hard  bread. 

Night  and  day,  day  and  night,  forever  to  and  fro, 
move  the  army  wagons.  If  "  England's  morning  drum 
beats  round  the  world/*  the  postillions'  whips  crack  in 
ceaseless  volleys  from  Nashville  to  Chattanooga.  Think 
of  an  unbroken  column  of  wagons  two  hundred  and 
twenty  miles  long,  rumbling  over  that  bridge  of  boats 
across  the  Tennessee,  as  if  the  long  roll  were  forever 
beating  and  remember  that  they  bear  the  munitions 
of  life,  without  which  the  munitions  of  war  would  be 
harmless  as  a  drift  of  sand,  and  you  feel  that  if  the 
Front  is  formidable,  the  narrow  bridge  at  Bridgeport, 
that  can  be  swung  round  like  a  farm-yard  gate,  or 
trundled  away  upon  wheels  like  quilting-frames,  is  vital 
to  the  well-being  of  the  army.  Nobody  but  a  soldier 
can  understand  the  difficulties  of  the  tumbled-in  and 
heaped-up  world  of  mountains,  nor  the  horrible  gashes 
and  torrent-beds  called  roads,  over  which  our  half- 
empty  army-wagons  have  been  knocking  to  pieces, 
or  sinking  below  a  wheelwrights  resurrection.  The 
mountain  achievements  of  Hannibal  and  Bonaparte 
were  trifles  in  comparison,  and  going  over  the  ridges 
and  through  the  clefts  and  up  the  craggy  sides,  the 
wonder  grows,  not  so  much  how  a  vast  army  with 
ponderous  artillery  could  ever  have  surmounted  them, 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  147 

as  how,  once  over,  it  ever  could  have  been  main 
tained.  Possibilities  are  suggestive.  Take  a  time  when 
Chattanooga  was  a  chicken-pie  with  the  top  off,  and 
the  enemy  looking  down  into  it  like  the  father  of  a 
family  at  a  Christmas  dinner ;  looking  down  upon  an 
army  one  hundred  and  twenty-three  miles  from  its  base 
of  supplies  by  a  single  line  of  rail ;  the  distance  eked 
out  on  thirty  miles  of  river  by  three  feeble  little  boats, 
and  finished  off  at  last  with  nine  miles  of  a  mountain 
road;  a  time  when  the  iQth  Illinois  did  duty  upon 
parched  acorns ;  when  the  outlines  of  horses  and  mules 
had  their  noses  thrust  in  the  morning  feed  of  corn,  and 
were  only  sure  of  what  they  had  in  actual  punishment 
under  the  grinders,  for  soldiers  would  filch  it  away, 
kernel  by  kernel — pick  the  stray  grains  out  of  the  dirt, 
to  help  on  the  hungry  day.  And  this  sharing  of 
rations  was  checked  at  last,  for  they  locked  up  the  corn 
with  a  bayonet !  A  sentry  paced  before  the  noses  of 
the  brutes,  and  mule  and  horse  champed  on  unrobbed  ; 
when  many  a  soldier  has  picked  a  bone  out  of  the 
heap  of  offal,  hidden  it  under  his  coat  and  slipped 
away  as  if  he  had  been  a  thief!  And  yet  nobody  was 
starving.  It  was  only  the  shadow  of  a  possibility 
beginning  to  lengthen  along  the  ground. 

Why,  here  I  have  been  riding  a  round  hundred  miles 
to-day,  and  have  had  glimpses  of  the  turnpikes  all  the 


148  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

way,  and  everywhere  have  seen  an  unbroken  line  of 
army  wagons  moving  steadily  toward  Chattanooga, 
winding  down  into  the  ravines,  'creeping  up  the 
acclivities,  drawing  out  into  the  little  plains;  and  all 
the  while,  another  line  moving  toward  Nashville,  with 
hardly  a  break  in  the  stupendous  procession.  Arrived 
at  Murfreesboro,  it  was  moving  still.  Advanced  to 
Stevenson,  the  head  of  the  column  is  yet  beyond.  As 
I  saw  the  white  canvas  of  the  wagons  through  the 
clouds  of  dust,  I  could  liken  them  to  nothing  but  a 
thousand  ants,  each  hastening  away  with  its  little  white 
grain  of  an  egg.  And  all  these  tremendous  arteries  of 
life,  subsistence  and  ammunition,  that  meander  a  broad 
State,  constitute  what  Caesar  calls  the  impedimenta  of 
but  a  single  grand  army,  whose  victories  are  only 
the  results  of  marvelous  combinations  of  machinery 
gathered  from  all  quarters,  detailed,  arranged  and 
converged  by  the  sturdiest  labors  of  thousands  of  men 
whose  names  never  appear  in  the  brilliant  dispatches 
that  flash  over  the  whole  land  from  commanding 
Generals  in  the  field.  Stand  beside  a  siege  gun,  a 
hundred  pounder,  and  you  must  be  within  musket 
spatter  of  the  enemy  to  know  just  how  a  man's  heart 
warms  to  those  sturdy  fellows  that  put  in  the  pedal 
base  of  a  battle.  Thirteen  feet  in  length,  a  circum 
ference  of  seven  feet  at  the  breach  and  weighing  ten 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  149 

thousand  pounds,  it  will  toss  a  mass  of  iron  without 
trying,  as  far  as  you  can  trot  a  sober  pony  in  a  round 
hour.  It  seems  ponderous  to  be  moved  at  all.  Gravi 
tation  tugs  at  it  as  it  tugs  at  the  Cumberlands.  Now 
attach  to  it  the  ten  horses ,  set  the  broad  mill  wheels 
that  bear  it,  deep  in  the  ruts  of  a  mortar-bed  of  a  road ; 
put  the  muscle  of  blue-shouldered  wagoners  to  the 
wheel ;  heap  the  way  before  it  with  whole  families  of 
Bunyan's  "  Hill  Difficulty,"  and  then  multiply  that  one 
gun  by  fifty,  and  set  them  all  in  motion,  and  you  will 
begin  to  know  how  much  it  means  when  the  General 
easily  orders  thunder  and  dinner  for  the  Front. 


'GETTING    THE  IDEA." 

A  sharpshooter  at  the  battle  of  Chicamauga  fancying 
General  Granger  to  be  game  worth  the  powder,  coolly 
tries  his  hand  at  him.  The  General  hears  the  zip  of 
the  ball  at  one  ear,  but  hardly  minds  it.  In  a  minute 
away  it  sings  at  the  other.  He  takes  the  hint,  sweeps 
with  his  glass  the  direction  whence  the  couple  came, 
and  brings  up  the  marksman  just  drawing  a  bead  upon 
him  again.  At  that  instant  a  Federal  shot  strikes  the 
cool  hunter  and  down  he  goes.  That  long  range  gun 


150  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

of  his  was  captured,  weighed  twenty-four  pounds,  was 
telescope-mounted,  and  a  sort  of  mongrel  howitzer. 

At  one  point  there  was  a  lull  in  the  battle ;  at  least 
it  had  gone  shattering  and  thundering  down  the  line, 
and  the  boys  were  as  much  "  at  ease  "  as  boys  can  be 
upon  whom  any  moment  the  storm  may  roll  back 
again.  To  be  sure,  occasional  shots  and  now  and  then 
a  cometary  shell  kept  them  alive,  but  one  of  the  boys 
ran  down  to  a  little  spring,  and  towards  the  woods 
where  the  enemy  lay,  for  water.  He  had  just  stooped 
and  swung  down  his  canteen,  when  tick — a  rifle-ball 
struck  it  at  an  angle  and  bounded  away.  He  looked 
around  an  instant,  discovered  nobody,  thought  it  a 
chance  shot — a  piece  of  lead,  you  know,  that  goes  at  a 
killing  rate  without  any  malice  prepense — and  so,  no 
wise  infirm  of  purpose,  he  again  bent  to  get  the  water. 
Ping — a  second  bullet  cut  the  cord  of  his  canteen,  and 
the  boy  got  the  idea ;  a  sharpshooter  was  after  him,  and 
he  went  to  the  right-about  and  the  double-quick  to  the 
ranks.  The  idea  that  he  got  might  be  pleasanter; 
when  the  notion  that  somebody  is  making  a  target  of 
you  creeps  with  its  chilly  feet  slowly  up  your  back,  you 
can  hardly  help  shrinking  into  yourself,  though  you 
may  not  be  quite  ready  to  own  it. 

A  division  surgeon  was  riding  across  a  field  where 
the  battle  had  raged  fiercely  but  just  swept  on,  and 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  151 

was  making  his  way  slowly  among  the  drifts  of  friends 
and  foes — the  blue  and  the  gray  together — when  a 
wounded  Federal  soldier  asked  for  water.  The  surgeon 
gave  him  the  draught,  when  a  voice  from  a  gray  heap 
near  by  said,  "  Won't  you  give  me  one  too,  Doctor  ?  " 
"  Certainly  I  will,"  and  he  was  just  raising  the  soldier 
and  bringing  round  the  canteen  slung  under  his  arm  to 
put  it  to  his  lips  when  a  cannon  shot  from  a  hostile 
battery  struck  the  earth  on  one  side ;  a  second  bounded 
by  on  the  other.  The  man  looked  up  in  the  surgeon's 
face  with  a  half  smile,  "  I  am  afraid  they  mean  us, 
Doctor."  At  that  instant,  a  third  shot  hit  the  target, 
and  a  headless  trunk  fell  from  the  supporting  arm. 

Soldiers  own  to  little  fear  of  shells  unless  they  come 
in  a  swarm.  They  are  great,  droning,  humdrum  hum 
ble-bees,  and  go  to  the  tune  of  "  get  out  of  the  way," 
but  your  miserable  little  pellets  of  lead — zip  and  thug 
out  of  the  cedars !  Shell  are  queerly  behaved  things, 
often  harmless  against  all  probabilities,  and  when  you 
would  think  they  must  be  deadly,  only  hatching 
thunder.  If  a  shell  passes  you  by  only  a  few  feet 
before  it  bursts,  you  are  pretty  sure  to  be  good  for  the 
next  one  that  comes,  since  each  fragment  takes  its 
share  of  the  motion  and  flies  on.  If  a  shell  shows 
symptoms  of  making  a  landing  just  in  front  of  you, 
your  best  route  would  seem  to  be  towards  and  past  the 


152  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

shell,  but  how  rapidly  one  could  run  in  that  direction  I 
have  no  means  of  knowing,  never  having  seen  the  man 
that  tried  it.  A  solid  shot  is  the  most  deceptive  of 
projectiles.  It  may  seem  to  move  lazily,  to  be  almost 
dead,  but  so  long  as  it  moves  at  all  beware  of  it.  Just 
before  the  battle,  an  artilleryman  received  his  discharge 
for  disability,  but  delaying  for  some  reason  his  north 
ward  journey,  he  was  yet  with  his  battery  on  the  eve 
of  the  engagement,  and  true  to  his  instincts  took  his 
old  place  beside  his  horse,  and  was  just  preparing  to 
mount  when  a  solid  shot  came  ricochetting  across  the 
field,  bounded  up  and  struck  him  in  the  lower  part  of 
the  body.  Crying  out,  "  I've  got  the  first  ticket,  boys," 
he  sank  down  and  only  added,  with  that  strange  dread 
of  a  little  hurt  a  terribly  wounded  man  almost  always 
seems  to  feel,  "  lay  me  by  a  tree  where  they  wont  run 
over  me/'  They  complied  with  his  request,  hastened 
into  position,  and  saw  him  no  more,  The  poor  fellow's 
discharge  was  confirmed  by  Heaven.  Now,  that  fatal 
ball,  when,  having  finished  its  work  there,  it  leaped 
lazily  on,  pushed  out  the  skirt  of  the  artillerist's  coat  as 
a  hand  would  move  a  curtain,  without  rending  it ! 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  153 


A    MEDAL   STRUCK  TN   THE  SKY. 

The  night  after  the  battle  of  Mission  Ridge  an  officer 
had  gone  in  pursuit  of  the  flying  enemy  and  met  with  a 
sharp  resistance  near  Chicamauga  Station,  some  two 
miles  beyond  the  Ridge. 

At  about  seven  o'clock  on  that  November  evening, 
he  sent  a  regiment  to  take  possession  of  a  little  prom 
ontory  jutting  out  into  the  valley,  which  would  give 
him  a  vast  advantage.  The  musketry  were  briskly 
playing  all  the  while,  time  was  precious,  the  position 
important,  the  regiment  a  long  time  executing  the 
movement,  and  the  commander,  anxious  and  impatient, 
was  watching  the  sky  line  to  see  the  troops  emerge 
from  the  shadows  and  move  along  the  clear-cut  crest  of 
the  promontory.  The  moon,  then  near  the  full,  had 
just  risen  above  the  edge  of  the  hill,  when  the 
battalions  moved  out  of  the  darkness  and  exactly 
across  the  moon's  disc.  There  for  an  instant  was  the 
regiment,  colors  and  gleaming  arms  in  bold  relief  and 
motionless ;  a  regiment  transferred  to  heaven !  And 
there  was  the  moon,  a  great  medallion  struck  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  as  if  in  honor  of  that  deathless 


154  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

day.  The  General's  eye  brightened  at  the  sight. 
Even  there  it  was  something  to  be  thought  of;  to  be 
seen  but  a  moment ;  to  be  remembered  forever. 


"SMALL  DEERr 

Rats,  fiies — the  old-fashioned  brown  house-fly — and 
—well,  you  know  what  Burns  spied  on  a  lady's  bonnet, 
and  so,  in  his 

"  Oh,  wad  some  power  the  giftie  gie  us," 

endowed  it  with  immortality — all  follow  the  army. 
They  are  everywhere.  The  last  named  creature, 
against  which  care  and  cleanliness  are  no  adequate 
defense,  is  a  superior  production.  Equip  a  kernel  of 
half-macerated  wheat  with  a  small  detail  of  legs — say 
six  or  eight — a  mouth  and  an  appetite,  and  then  draw 
a  modest  gray  stripe  along  its  back,  and  you  have  the 
famous  "  gray-back/'  the  crowning  entomological  tri 
umph  of  the  army.  It  has  no  more  respect  for  the 
"  deeply,  darkly,  beautifully  blue  "  of  the  officers  than 
it  has  for  the  ragged  blouse  of  the  men.  Tenacious  of 
life  and  woolen  shirts,  it  thrives  in  water  at  any  less 
temperature  than  212  degrees,  Fahrenheit,  and  the 
only  use  made  of  its  belongings  is  to  throw  the  name 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  155 

it  bears  at  the  next  meanest  creature  encountered  in 
these  regions.  Now  the  rats,  the  flies,  and  the  gray- 
backs  are  blessings!  The  two  former  are  nature's 
licensed  scavengers  and  deserve  protection.  Consider 
the  camp  offices  they  perform,  and  you  will  leave  them, 
unharmed ;  and  as  for  the  gray-backs,  they  furnish 
most  uneasy  and  intolerable  arguments  for  personal 
cleanliness,  and  a  single  gray-back  has  driven  a  soldier 
to  soap  and  water  who  could  hardly  have  been  per 
suaded  thither  by  a  bayonet. 

I  saw  this  morning  a  squad  of  the  pioneer  corps, 
with  the  train  of  led  mules,  each  one  having  managed 
to  creep  under  a  pair  of  immense  willow  panniers,  and 
to  get  upon  his  legs,  the  handles  of  spades,  pickaxes 
and  shovels  bristling  from  the  tops  of  the  panniers  like 
the  shafts  of  arrows  from  the  quiver  of  Apollo. 

The  impression  you  gain  from  looking  at  any  one 
mule,  is  of  a  very  lean  rat  under  a  couple  of  clothes- 
baskets — such  as  Falstaff  got  into,  if  we  can  credit 
Shakespeare — but  the  whole  train  winding  its  way 
among  the  mountains,  the  little  emblem  X  of  crossed 
axes  glittering  on  the  blue  sleeves  of  the  pioneers, 
suggests  a  scene  in  the  Orient,  and  has  not  the  least 
of  an  American  look.  The  mule  is  an  "  institution ; " 
dead  or  alive,  he  is  everywhere ;  he  trails  the  great 
banging  wagons  up  mountains  and  down  ravines  where 


156  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

cavalry  can  hardly  ride  ;  of  the  six-mule  power  and  the 
musketry  of  the  postillion's  whip  you  never  get  out  of 
sight  and  hearing.  If  the  wagon — of  the  exaggerated 
Pennsylvania  species — gets  the  better  of  brake  and 
chain,  and  goes  hammering  itself  to  pieces  down  a 
rocky  path  that  nothing  ever  went  down  before  but  a 
crazy  torrent,  the  driver  adroitly  throws  his  rear  team, 
chucks  them  under  the  wheels,  and  brings  everything 
to  a  jingling,  crashing  halt.  No  wonder  the  mule 
brays  in  its  rusty  way — the  only  creature  extant  that 
can  slip  all  its  misery  to  the  tip  of  its  tongue.  I  only 
wonder  it  does  not  pray.  Its  tail  a  miserable  wisp,  its 
mane  a  worn-out  shoe  brush,  its  ears  "  the  chief  end  " 
of  it,  the  mule  is  about  as  much  an  artificial  production 
as  a  wooden  nutmeg ;  and  yet  no  steed  from  Barbary 
ever  had  a  foot  so  beautiful.  And  yet,  without  the 
creature  to  which  a  thistle  is  a  treat,  the  battle  of 
Mission  Ridge  could  never  have  been  won. 


ARMY  PETS. 

They  have  the  strangest  pets  in  the  army,  that 
nobody  would  dream  of  "  taking  to  "  at  home,  and  yet 
they  are  little  touches  of  the  gentler  nature  that 
give  you  some  such  cordial  feeling  when  you  see 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  157 

them,  as  there  is  in  the  clasp  of  a  friendly  hand. 
Observation  attests  that  the  tenderest  care  for  suffering 
comrades  does  not  come  from  the  recruit  fresh  from 
home  and  its  endearments,  but  from  the  rough,  battle- 
worn,  generous  fellows  to  whom  they  are  only  a  long 
cherished  memory.  One  of  the  boys  has  carried  a  red 
squirrel  "  through  thick  and  thin "  over  a  thousand 
miles.  "  Bun  "  eats  hard-tack  like  a  veteran,  and  has 
the  freedom  of  the  tent.  Another's  affections  overflow 
upon  a  slow-winking,  unspeculative  little  owl,  captured 
in  Arkansas,  and  bearing  a  name  with  a  classical  smack 
to  it — Minerva.  A  third  gives  his  heart  to  a  young 
Cumberland  Mountain  bear.  But  chief  among  camp 
pets  are  dogs.  Riding  on  the  saddle-bow,  tucked  into 
a  baggage-wagon,  mounted  on  a  knapsack,  growling 
under  a  gun,  are  dogs  brought  to  a  premature  end 
as  to  ears  and  tails,  and  yellow  at  that ;  pug-nosed, 
square-headed  brutes,  sleek  terriers,  delicate  morsels  of 
spaniels,  "  Tray,  Blanche,  Sweetheart,  little  dogs  and 
all."  A  dog,  like  a  horse,  comes  to  love  the  rattle  and 
crash  of  musket  and  cannon.  There  is  one  in  an 
Illinois  regiment,  and,  I  think,  regarded  as  belonging 
to  it,  though  his  name  may  not  be  on  the  muster-roll, 
that  chases  half-spent  shot  as  a  kitten  frolics  with  a 
ball  of  worsted.  He  has  been  under  fire  and  twice 
wounded,  and  left  the  tip  of  his  tail  at  the  battle  of 
Stone  River.  Woe  to  the  man  that  shall  wantonly  kill 


158  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

him.  But  I  was  especially  interested  in  the  fortunes 
of  a  little  white  spaniel  that  messed  with  a  battery  and 
delighted  in  the  name  of  "  Dot."  No  matter  what  was 
up,  that  fellow's  silken  coat  must  be  washed  every  day, 
and  there  was  need  of  it,  for  when  the  battery  was  on 
the  march  they  just  plunged  him  into  the  sponge- 
bucket —  not  the  tidiest  chamber  imaginable  —  that 
swings  like  its  more  peaceful  cousin,  the  tar-bucket, 
under  the  rear  axle  of  the  gun-carriage — plumped  him 
into  that,  clapped  on  the  cover,  and  Dot  was  good  for 
an  inside  passage.  One  day  the  battery  crossed  a 
stream  and  the  water  came  well  up  to  the  guns. 
Nobody  thought  of  Dot,  and  when  all  across,  a  gunner 
looked  into  the  bucket ;  it  was  full  of  water  and  Dot 
was  as  dead  as  a  little,  dirty  door-mat.  Departed, 
mourned  and  buried,  it  is  time  to  put  a  dot  to  his 
story. 

All  about  the  camps — the  wildest  and  roughest  of 
them — you  cannot  get  out  of  sight  of  the  one  touch 
of  nature.  Thus,  reared  aloft  on  a  single  stilt,  through 
the  camp  whence  I  am  now  writing,  you  may  see  neat, 
snug  cottages  for  the  Martin  family,  that  despite  war 
and  high  prices,  yet  wear  the  rich  satin  of  the  old-time. 
I  close  my  eyes,  a  moment,  and  their  pleasant  talk,  as 
they  sit  upon  their  balconies,  bears  me,  like  the  song 
of  a  dear,  dead  singer,  back  to  the  homes  afar  and  the 
days  that  are  no  more. 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  159 


A    FLAG   OF  TRUCE. 

Did  you  ever  go  out  with  a  flag  of  truce  ?  If  not,  let 
me  give  you  a  touch  of  a  new  experience.  A  group  of 
horsemen  approach  our  pickets  with  a  white  flag. 
They  are  halted,  wheeled  about,  their  backs  to  the 
Federal  lines,  their  rank  demanded,  and  a  messenger 
dispatched  to  headquarters  announcing  the  arrival  and 
asking  if  the  flag  will  be  received.  If  disposed  to  grant 
an  interview,  a  Federal  officer  of  equal  rank  with  the 
bearer  of  the  message  is  sent  out,  and,  if  fortunate,  you 
accompany  him.  As  you  ride  up,  it  surprises  you  a 
little  to  see  each  salute  the  flag ;  surprises  you  more  to 
see  that  they  shake  hands  and  smile  like  old  friends ; 
surprises  you  most  when  a  Confederate  officer  produces 
a  bottle  of  wine  and  challenges  his  vis-a-vis  to  a  stirrup- 
cup.  The  officers  bearing  and  receiving  the  message 
dismount,  move  apart  and  confer.  The  errand  may  be 
to  pass  a  lady  through  our  lines  to  the  North,  or  to 
propose  a  four-and-twenty  hours'  armistice,  or  to  play 
a  card  or  two  in  the  game  of  Bragg.  The  little  aside 
conference  over,  the  groups  meet  and  mingle  on  that 
hand's  breadth  of  neutral  ground,  spend  a  few  moments 
in  conversation,  apparently  free  and  frank,  salute  each 


l6o  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

other  and  wheel  away,  returning  each  to  his  own.  The 
white  flags  have  hardly  flickered  out  of  sight,  wrhen, 
blow,  great  guns !  Lookout  may  growl,  and  Moccasin 
Point  crack  a  fiery  whip.  While  the  interview  lasts, 
the  opposing  pickets  lean  upon  their  muskets  and  look 
on.  Dark-blue  clusters  \vatch  it  from  the  parapets  of 
the  forts  in  sight,  and  the  butternut  and  gray  enemy 
crawl  out  from  their  rifle-pits  and  look  on,  too.  It  is  a 
grateful  breathing  spell  for  all  colors. 

Flags  of  truce  and  the  bearing  of  hostile  pickets 
toward  each  other  always  puzzle  a  civilian.  He  can 
not  imagine  how  men  can  stand  front  to  front  that  may 
turn  upon  each  other  any  hour,  even  as  the  upper  and 
nether  mill-stones,  and  grind  out  life  and  heart  like 
grain,  and  not  bear,  man  to  man,  the  deadliest  hate. 
And  yet  nothing  can  be  further  from  the  truth.  Right 
on  the  eve  of  the  battle  Federal  pickets  contentedly 
munch  biscuit  that  their  neighbors-in-law  have  tossed 
to  them ;  and  an  examination  of  many  a  plug  of  the 
Indian  weed  in  a  picket's  pocket  would  show  the  print 
of  a  rebel's  teeth  at  one  end,  and  a  "  Yankee's  "  at  the 
other. 

The  small  currency  of  gibe  and  joke  passes  as  freely 
among  them  as  it  does  around  a  steamboat  landing  in 
the  "  piping  times  of  peace,"  and  I  half  fancied  that  a 
sort  of  rough,  rude  friendship  might  have  sprung  up 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  l6l 

among  some  of  them.  On  Monday,  the  day  of  our 
reconnoissance  in  force  at  Mission  Ridge,  when  the 
Federal  skirmish  line  moved  out,  the  hostile  pickets 
stood  and  looked  wonderingly  upon  it,  and  not  till  our 
advancing  line  was  tipped  with  fire  did  they  get  the 
idea  that  serious  work,  work  with  blood  and  death  in  it, 
was  actually  beginning. 

No  elbow  pagans  in  a  little  village  at  the  hateful  age 
of  gossip,  who  divine  each  other's  breakfast  by  the 
smell  of  the  kitchen  smokes,  ever  knew  more  of  their 
neighbors'  business  than  the  troops  on  Mission  Ridge 
and  Lookout  seemed  to  know  of  ours.  On  Sunday 
night,  before  the  battle,  rations  of  hard-tack  and  eighty 
rounds  of  ammunition  had  been  issued.  That  very 
Sunday  night,  an  Indiana  regiment  went  out  to  picket 
duty,  and  the  first  salutation  from  the  rebel  line  was, 
"  Ho,  ho !  you  Yanks  think  of  fighting,  do  you  ?  Got 
eighty  rounds,  did  you,  and  hard  bread  to  match  !  " 
There  were  five  thousand  men  in  Chattanooga  at  that 
moment,  to  whom  it  would  have  been  the  freshest  of 
news.  Two  hostile  armies  may  be  wonderfully 
intimate. 


162  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 


A   RIVER  ROUTE  IN   WAR    TIME. 

I  used  to  wonder  at  an  eccentric  old  father  who 
named  his  daughter  "  Tennessee,"  but  now  I  can  under 
stand  and  pardon  the  strange  conceit,  for  it  is,  indeed, 
a  beautiful  thing  that  girl  was  named  for.  The 
steamers  that  navigate  the  Tennessee  are  not  gems  of 
naval  architecture ;  the  gilded  saloons  are  "  in  the 
mind's  eye  ;  "  the  state-rooms  are  in  a  state  of  nature ; 
the  whole  craft  is  scow-y  to  a  degree  and  dangerously 
dirty,  and  yet  neither  Cleopatra  nor  the  Doge  of  Venice 
ever  floated  in  barge  so  graceful  as  the  "  Paint  Rock  " 
seemed  to  me  before  the  battle  of  Mission  Ridge.  To 
be  sure,  she  sat  on  the  river  like  a  tub,  but  in  my  eyes 
she  "  walked  the  waters  like  a  thing  of  life."  The  last 
throw  of  the  locomotive  dice-boxes  has  tumbled  you 

4» 

out  at  Bridgeport  within  an  ace  of  your  life,  and  con 
cluding  to  take  to  the  water,  you  make  for  a  tall  smoke 
under  the  river  bank,  and  slide  down  a  slippery  path, 
in  a  turbulent  current  of  box  and  barrel.  Beside  you, 
swaying  like  the  tethered  elephant  in  the  menagerie,  is 
a  broad-nosed,  amphibious-looking  creature,  apparently 
built  around  a  very  quaint  and  greasy  engine,  while 
you  can  hardly  persuade  yourself  that  the  chimneys 


IN   CAMP   AND    FIELD.  163 

were  not  set  up  on  end  and  thrust  above  the  tree-tops 
simply  because  there  was  no  room  for  them  below.  On 
the  edges  around  this  engine  are  masses  of  blue,  thinly 
sprinkled  with  sutlers  and  contractors.  Here  and  there 
a  gentleman  in  black,  with  a  haversack  blacker  still, 
represents  the  Christian  Commission. 

You  pick  your  way  amid  box  and  bale  to  the  upper 
deck,  with  its  warped  and  creaking  floor,  and  the  cabin 
is  before  you  ;  a  flapping  canvas  reared  on  the  slender 
est  of  umbrella  frames,  and  looking  like  the  tent  of  a 
side-show.  Within  is  neither  fire  nor  light  nor  seat. 
You  plump  down  incontinently  upon  the  floor,  produce 
a  candle  and  a  sandwich  from  your  knapsack,  button 
up  your  coat,  and  there  you  are,  a  first-class  passenger. 
The  aguish  steamer  moans ;  the  solemn  trees  begin  to 
glide  along  the  river  banks ;  you  are  under  way,  and  so 
giving  your  blanket  a  wisp  you  fall  asleep,  and  make  a 
night  of  it.  In  the  gray  of  the  morning  you  look  out, 
and  to  your  delight  the  steamer  lies  with  its  nose  to  the 
shore,  and  Bridgeport  in  plain  sight.  You  have  been 
waiting  for  the  fog  to  lift ;  you  have  not  gone  a  mile ! 
Starved  with  hunger  and  cold  you  get  under  the  lee  of 
a  log  cabin,  two  stories  high,  built  up  square  and  strong 
in  the  middle  of  the  deck,  and  discovering  that  it  is  the 
bullet-proof  pilot-house  you  catch  yourself  wishing  you 
had  a  lease  of  it. 


164  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

Little  bells  tinkle,  big  bells  clang,  there  is  a  rush  of 
steam,  the  great  wheel,  hung  on  behind,  like  a  reel  at 
the  stern  of  an  emigrant's  wagon,  because  there  was  no 
room  for  it  aboard,  begins  to  turn  slow,  and  the  craft 
swings  shoreward,  just  abreast  of  a  garden,  to  wood  up. 
A  couple  of  dozen  negroes  stream  duskily  out  from  the 
lower  deck,  and  the  garden  fence  of  red  cedar  is 
shipped  in  ten  minutes,  leaving  not  a  rail  or  a  wreck 
behind ;  innocent  onions  and  infant  cabbages,  every 
esculent  and  succulent  of  them  all,  left  to  the  tendei 
mercies  of  hungry  pigs  and  the  cold  world.  Bang  goes 
the  bell,  the  hungry  fires  lick  up  the  sweet  morsels  of 
cedar,  the  engine  gives  great  sighs  of  content,  we  push 
bravely  against  the  current,  and  such  is  "  wooding  up  " 
on  the  Tennessee. 


THE  DEVIL'S   COFFEE  MILL. 

Did  you  ever  see  one  of  the  Devil's  Coffee-mills? 
I  saw  ten  of  them  to-day,  like  the  immemorial  black 
birds,  "  all  in  a  row," — the  "  Union  Repeating  Gun  " 
—an  implement  that  might  do  tremendous  execution 
in  skirmishing  were  it  not  as  liable  to  get  out  of  order 
as  a  lady's  watch.  Imagine  a  big  rifle  mounted  upon 
a  light  pair  of  wheels,  and  swung  easily  upon  an  arc 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  165 

of  a  circle  by  a  lever  under  the  gunner's  left  arm  so  as 
to  sweep  the  enemy  like  a  broom.  Fancy  a  coffee-mill 
hopper  where  the  lock  ought  to  be,  and  a  crank  to 
match.  Then  here  is  a  little  copper  box  fitting  the 
hopper.  You  fill  it  with  a  dozen  or  twenty  cartridges, 
clap  it  into  the  hopp.er,  and  the  thing  is  ready  for 
business.  The  gunner  seats  himself  comfortably 
behind  the  gun,  elevates  or  depresses  it  with  a  touch, 
and  takes  sight.  Before  his  face  as  he  sits,  and 
attached  to  the  gun-barrel,  is  a  steel  shield  about  the 
shape  of  an  overgrown  shovel  and  inclined  a  little 
towards  the  miller,  so  that  a  shot  aimed  affectionately 
at  his  head  glances  up  and  flies  harmlessly  away. 
Through  the  center  of  this  shield  is  a  narrow  slit — a  la 
Monitor-turret — which  enables  him  to  take  sight. 

Now,  all  things  ready,  the  diabolical  grist  of  bullets 
in  the  hopper,  the  gunner — if  he  is  a  gunner — with  the 
rudder  under  his  left  arm,  turns  the  crank  with  his 
right  hand,  and  the  play  begins.  I  saw  one  of  them 
work ;  it  was  tick,  tick,  tick,  sixty  to  the  minute,  as 
fast  as  you  could  think ;  no  brisk  little  French  clock 
ever  beat  faster.  When  the  barrel  gets  hot,  there  is 
another  in  that  chest ;  when  the  grists  are  all  out  and 
the  battle  over,  you  pack  the  whole  affair  in  a  sort  of 
traveling-trunk,  slip  in  a  pair  of  shafts,  with  a  horse 
between  them,  in  a  twinkling,  and  trundle  it  off  as 


l66  PICTURES   OF  LIFE 

lightly  as  the  cart  of  a  Bowery  butcher  boy.  But 
soldiers  do  not  fancy  it.  Even  if  it  were  not  liable  to 
derangement,  it  is  so  foreign  to  the  old,  familiar  action 
of  battle — that  sitting  behind  a  steel  blinder  and 
turning  a  crank — that  enthusiasm  dies  out ;  there  is  no 
play  to  the  pulses ;  it  does  not  seem  like  soldiers'  work. 
Indeed,  they  regard  it  much  as  your  genuine  man-of- 
war's  man  is  apt  to  look  upon  the  creeping,  low-lying 
mud  turtles  of  Monitors,  when,  shut  up  in  an  iron  box, 
he  remembers  with  a  sigh  the  free  decks  and  upper  air 
broadsides  of  his  dear,  old,  stately  ship-of-the-line, 
whose  "  fore-foot "  lifts  grandly  on  the  waves  as  if  she 
were  going  up  a  sea-green  stairway,  and  who  shakes 
her  splendid  plumage  as  if  she  were  ready  to  fly. 


FATIGUE 

How  slow  we  are  to  learn  that  a  battle  is  only  the 
apex  of  a  pyramid  it  has  worn  out  thousands  to  build  ; 
the  apex  on  which  the  sun  streams  a  single  ray  of 
glory,  while  all  the  rest  is  lost  in  the  shadows  below. 
As  I  write,  bodies  of  cavalry  and  baggage-wagons 
and  pontoon  trains  are  moving  by,  eight  days  from 
Nashville  over  the  mountains,  each  whiff  of  hot  air 
hatching  a  trooper  out  of  the  yellow  cloud  of  dust,  not 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD  l6/ 

a  discernible  trace  of  uniform,  and  ready  to  throw 
himself  upon  a  couple  of  fence  rails  laid  side  by  side, 
mutter  thanks,  as  Sancho  Panza  did,  to  the  man  who 
invented  sleep,  and  fall  out  of  conscious  existence  in  a 
twinkling  and  make  no  sign. 

On  one  occasion,  when  Roddy  and  Forrest,  with  five 
thousand  men,  were  hard  after  Streight,  a  halt  was 
ordered  for  an  hour's  rest.  The  boys  rolled  from  their 
saddles  into  the  bed  of  dust  beside  their  horses'  feet, 
and  were  asleep  in  a  minute ;  a  slumber  so  nearly  own 
brother  to  death  that  the  hour  elapsed,  the  trumpet 
could  not  waken  them,  and  the  officers  had  actually  to 
shake  each  man  as  he  lay,  and  that,  too,  in  a  hostile 
land  and  a  strong,  swift  enemy  behind  him.  This  is 
fatigue  in  its  fullest  sense,  and,  if  you  will  multiply 
that  trooper  by  eighty  thousand,  and  parch  him  with 
thirst  and  set  him  on  his  feet  in  the  burning  dust,  and 
bid  him  take  his  life  in  his  hands  and  march  and  watch 
and  fight  until  the  burden  of  his  thought  is,  "just  one 
wink  of  sleep,"  that  would  be  unbroken  by  the  spatter 
of  muskets  and  the  growl  of  great  guns,  possibly  you 
will  have  an  approximate  idea  of  what  it  is  to  be 
fatigued. 


1 68  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 


THE  LITTLE   ORDERLY. 

You  remember  the  story  of  little  Johnny  Clem,  the 
atom  of  a  drummer-boy,  "  aged  ten,"  who  strayed  away 
from  Newark,  Ohio,  and  the  first  we  know  of  him, 
though  small  enough  to  live  in  a  drum,  was  beating  the 
long  roll  for  the  22d  Michigan.  At  Chicamauga,  he 
filled  the  office  of  a  "  marker,"  carrying  the  guidon 
whereby  they  form  the  lines,  a  duty  having  its  counter 
part  in  the  surveyor's  more  peaceful  calling  in  the 
flagman  who  flutters  the  red  signal  along  the  metes  and 
bounds.  On  the  Sunday  of  the  battle,  the  little 
fellow's  occupation  gone,  he  picked  up  a  gun  that  had 
slipped  from  some  dying  hand,  provided  himself  with 
ammunition,  and  began  putting  in  the  periods  quite  on 
his  own  account,  blazing  awray  close  to  the  ground,  like 
a  fire-fly  in  the  grass.  Late  in  the  waning  day,  the 
waif  left  almost  alone  in  the  whirl  of  the  battle,  one  of 
Longstreet's  Colonels  dashed  up,  and,  looking  down  at 
him,  ordered  him  to  surrender :  "  Surrender ! "  he 
shouted,  "  you  little  d — d  son  of  a  —  The  words 

were  hardly  out  of  the  officer's  mouth,  when  Johnny 
brought  his  piece  to  "  order  arms,"  and  as  his  hand 
slipped  down  to  the  hammer  he  pressed  it  back,  swung 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  169 

up  the  gun  to  the  position  of  "  charge  bayonet,"  and 
as  the  officer  raised  his  sabre  to  strike  the  piece  aside, 
the  glancing  barrel  lifted  into  range,  and  the  proud 
Colonel  tumbled  dead  from  his  horse,  his  lips  fresh 
stained  with  the  syllable  of  reproach  he  had  hurled  at 
the  child. 

A  few  swift  moments  ticked  off  by  musket  shots,  and 
the  tiny  gunner  was  swept  up  at  a  swoop  and  borne 
away  a  prisoner.  Soldiers,  bigger  but  not  better,  were 
taken  with  him,  only  to  be  washed  back  again  by  a 
surge  of  Federal  troopers,  and  the  prisoner  of  thirty 
minutes  was  again  John  Clem  "  of  ours,"  and  General 
Rosecrans  made  him  a  Sergeant,  and  the  stripes  of  rank 
covered  him  all  over  like  a  mouse  in  a  harness,  and  the 
daughter  of  Mr.  Secretary  Chase  presented  him  a  silver 
medal  appropriately  inscribed,  which  he  worthily  wears, 
a  royal  order  of  honor,  upon  his  left  breast,  and  all 
men  conspire  to  spoil  him,  but,  since  few  ladies  can  get 
at  him  here,  perhaps  he  may  be  saved.  Think  of 
a  sixty-three  pound  Sergeant,  fancy  a  handful  of  a 
hero,  and  then  read  the  "  Arabian  Nights  "  and  believe 
them. 


170  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 


NASHVILLE  STREET  SCENES. 

The  scene  is  strange  enough  to  have  been  born  of  a 
heavy  supper  at  midnight.  Tented  towns  where  rose 
spacious  and  elegant  homes ;  red,  trodden  earth  where 
landscape  gardens  undulated  ;  the  old  households  scat 
tered  and  gone  ;  the  old  home  charm  departed  ;  the 
stranger  within  the  gates.  One  incessant,  turbulent 
stream  rolls  through  the  streets  all  day  long.  Through 
tangles  of  all-colored  humanity,  from  Congo  to 
Christendom,  meeting  now  the  Beauty  and  now  the 
Beast,  you  make  your  way.  As  far  as  you  can  see, 
army  wagons  raised  to  six-mule  power ;  now  ambitious 
barrels  mounted  upon  two  wheels  borne  along  in  the 
current ;  a  wave  of  cavalry  swelling  the  tide ;  stars, 
single  and  double,  glittering  on  the  top  of  the  stream, 
and  spread  eagles  floating,  and  silver  leaves  drifting  on 
in  pairs ;  now  in  an  eddy  at  a  corner,  whirl  ponderous 
artillery  and  little  Africans,  ambulances  and  ammuni 
tion,  bread  and  bayonets.  Horsemen  tack  their  way 
on,  doubling  a  cape  of  mules'  ears,  beating  up  in  the 
lee  of  a  school  of  caissons,  astern  of  a  baggage  wagon  ; 
orderlies  dash  by  at  a  gallop,  while  soldiers  make  a 
dive  into  the  channel,  dart  like  trout  among  hoofs, 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  I/I 

wheels  and   noses,  and   come   up   safely  on  the   other 
shore. 

The  city  pulsates  like  a  heart  with  regiments  moving 
to  the  Front.  Depots  are  congested,  trains  show  blue 
like  full  veins,  sidewalks  are  azure,  hotels  cerulean,  but 
not  heavenly.  You  see,  linked  in  the  same  train,  cars 
labeled  "  Memphis,"  "  Charleston,"  "  New  Orleans," 
"  Indianapolis,"  "  Galena  and  Chicago,"  "  Michigan 
Southern  " — a  perfect  pentecost  of  railroads — and  such 
a  train.  Next  to  the  engine  is  a  block-house  on 
wheels,  bullet-proof,  and  filled  with  armed  soldiers,  the 
effect  of  the  whole,  with  its  broad  ungainly  front,  being 
that  of  an  anomalous  "  bull-head." 

There  is  a  blue  elbow  angling  in  each  side,  and  a 
regulation  shoe  planted  exactly  across  your  single  file 
of  toes,  and  there  seems  to  be  no  place  for  you  any 
where,  and  you  begin  to  see  that  while  "  the  pen  is 
mightier  than  the  sword  "  is  all  very  well  in  the  play 
and  among  the  Scribes,  it  is  very  far  from  being  true  in 
a  wide-awake  department  of  the  army,  where  the  scale 
of  being  runs  downward  thus :  men,  munitions,  mules, 
scribblers ;  brigades,  batteries,  bacon,  beasts,  Bohemians. 
But  everybody  knows  that  despite  the  absurd  declama 
tion  of  a  very  few  officers  against  the  press  as  a  power 
in  time  of  war,  the  work  of  the  army  correspondents 
was  worth  tons  of  powder  to  the  Federal  hosts,  while 


172  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

of  those  who  denounced  the  press  so  wildly  it  may  be 
justly  said,  "  nations  could  be  saved  without  them.' 

The  first  thing  in  the  street  scenes  that  startles 
you  with  a  loud  knock  at  the  left  breast  is  this: 
in  the  endless  procession  of  army  trains  comes  a 
two-horse,  canvas-covered  wagon,  with  very  much  the 
look  of  the  noisy  vehicles  that  churn  pure  country 
milk  over  city  pavements.  You  cannot  tell  why  you 
looked  at  it  at  all,  but,  as  you  did  so,  you  saw 
lashed  to  its  side  a  device  something  like  a  bier — 
two  parallel  shafts  connected  by  a  piece  of  sacking.  In 
the  rear  of  the  wagon,  on  each  side  of  the  door,  the 
end  of  a  keg  was  visible,  neatly  fitted  into  place.  It 
needed  nobody  to  tell  you  it  was  your  first  glimpse  of 
an  ambulance — the  flying  hospital — that,  with  its 
burdens  of  anguish  and  death,  moves  to  and  fro  upon 
the  field  of  blood.  Like  the  flag  of  truce — that  most 
beautiful  emblem  in  the  world — the  ambulance  should 
be  free  of  all  fields.  One  passed  you  a  minute  ago, 
labeled  "805,"  and  the  figures  are  as  solemn  as  the 
Dead  March  in  Saul.  You  may  make  a  charge  without 
flinching,  when  the  heart  beats  the  long  roll  like  a 
drum,  but  to  enter  the  terrible  storm  again  and  again 
with  an  ambulance,  and  assist  to  place  tenderly  within 
it  its  freight  of  agony,  calls  for  the  coolest  courage  and 
the  firmest  resolution. 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  1/3 

You  see  the  undertakers  jostling  the  vanities  to  gain 
a  glance  of  your  eye  ;  tho  undertaker,  who  of  all  trades 
men  succeeds  in  his  undertaking,  and  whose  work  once 
.lone  for  you  11  done  "  for  good  and  all."  The 
embalmers,  toe,  elbow  each  other  and  wrangle  over 
their  coffin;:  as  to  which  you  shall  lie  dov/n  in.  One 
exhibits  a  dog  in  a  glass  case,  upon  which  he  has  tried 
his  art  preservative ;  he  declares  it  a  triumph,  for 
though  the  bark  is  gone  the  body  remains.  Coffins 
stand  up  on  end,  empty  and  hungry,  and  petition  you 
to  get  in  and  be  composed ;  a  transparency  suggests 
that  you  be  embalmed  ;  a  lantern  persuades  vou  to  go 
to  the  "  Varieties."  You  see,  standing  here  and  there, 
oblong,  unpainted  boxes,  awaiting  shipment,  with  the 
word,  "  head "  written  upon  one  end,  and  you  shall 
think,  as  I  do,  "Yes,  there  is  where  he  fell — in  the 
front,  at  the  head  of  the  army." 

But  the  sad  ccenes  daily  witnessed  in  their  rooms 
make  you  forget  the  strange  rivalry  of  the  undertakers ; 
mothers  and  wives  with  tear-stained  faces  waiting  there 
for  the  dear,  dead  boy  and  love  they  would  save,  just  a 
little  longer,  from  the  sweeping  yet  merciful  sentence, 
"  to  dust  shalt  thou  return."  Old  fathers,  tremulous 
and  yet  content,  for  the  agony  of  suspense  is  over,  and 
the  soldier  "  sleeps  well,"  are  waiting  to  bear  the  silent 


1/4  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

burdens   back   to   the   homes  they  left   so  brave  and 
strong. 

Amid  these  whirls  and  eddies  of  intensest  life  and 
wildest  death,  you  encounter  something  every  day  that 
might  have  walked  forth  from  an  unbolted  tombP  or 
stepped  out  of  a  tarnished  old  picture  frame  of  a 
hundred  years  ago.  Wagons,  rickety  and  ribbed, 
resembling  so  many  scows  worn  down  to  skin  and 
bone,  creep  painfully  into  town,  drawn  by  two  horses 
tied  up  with  ropes  and  strings,  and  tapered  out  with  a 
third  ;  wagons  filled  with  the  nursing  mothers  of  Africa, 
the  ragged  children  of  Ham  and  various  "  truck."  It  is 
a  picture  "  toted  "  straight  out  of  the  Old  Dominion, 
the  visible  symbol  of  a  plantation  break-down.  Look 
at  that  wheel,  its  rim  guiltless  of  any  iron ;  there, 
before  your  eyes,  are  the  meaning  and  burden  of  the 

song, 

"Old  Virginny  never  tires!" 

Sometimes  you  see  old-world  mourners,  the  black 
crape  streaming  out  broadly  from  their  hats  behind, 
and  slowly  turning  to  larboard  cnc!  starboard  like  a 
rudder,  as  they  walk.  The  old  gentlemen  of  the  ruf 
fled  bosoms — so  ruffled  and  yet  so  placid  ! — you  might 
have  seen  a  dozen  years  ago  on  the  shady  side  in  the 
morning,  looking  as  if  they  had  stepped  out  of  a  dim 
and  ancient  picture  into  life  and  light  again,  have 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  175 

disappeared.  You  see  old  hand-organs,  in  the  green 
baize  petticoats,  grinding  out,  in  the  midst  of  phthisicky 
gasps,  the  grist  of  tunes  taken  to  the  mill  "  when  cats 
wore  fillets."  But  when  a  swarthy  fellow  plants  a 
monstrous  quadrant  before  your  quarters,  and  begins  to 
vex  the  nerves  of  what  proves  to  be  a  harp  old  enough 
to  have  been  King  David's,  and  to  sing  about  "  der 
Rhein"  in  a  voice  that,  like  Paul's,  would  "  almost 
persuade  you  to  be  a  Christian  "  and  escape  to  Heaven 
and  be  out  of  hearing,  you  half  suspect  there  must  have 
been  a  partial  resurrection. 

You  ask  for  the  young  men  of  Nashville ;  the  high- 
spirited,  delicately-nurtured  sons.  They  are  not  here. 
They  are  sleeping  on  many  a  battle-field  all  over  the 
South ;  they  have  perished.  Nay,  look  over  yonder, 
on  the  slope  below  the  weeping  willows ;  that  field 
checked  with  little  white  head-boards  is  full  of  them. 
You  walk  along  the  streets  sweet  with  the  white 
blossoms  of  the  Magnolia  tree,  and  you  will  see  the 
tokens  of  black  crape  poured  out  like  a  grief  from 
between  the  closed  blinds,  and  hundreds  of  the  women 
of  Nashville  clad  in  mourning  for  the  misguided  dead. 
You  meet  them  everywhere,  and  a  feeling  made  up  of 
sadness  and  loneliness  comes  over  you  as  you  think 
of  these  circles  scattered  and  stricken  forever  for  a 
worthless  sake.  I  shall  never  be  done  admiring  the 


176  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

patriotic  devotion  of  the  loyal  women  of  the  land,  but 
I  must  tell  you  that  the  women  of  the  South  are 
worthy,  in  everything  but  a  sacred  cause,  of  their 
Northern  sisters.  There  is  nothing  they  will  not 
surrender  with  a  smile ;  the  gemmed  ring,  the  diamond 
bracelet,  the  rich  wardrobe.  They  cut  up  the  rich 
carpets  for  soldiers'  blankets  without  a  sigh  ;  they  take 
the  fine  linen  from  their  persons  for  bandages.  In  all 
there  is  a  defiant  air,  a  pride  in  their  humility  strange 
to  see.  Of  a  truth  they  carry  it  off  grandly.  And 
almost  all  are  in  mourning  for  the  dead  brothers, 
lovers,  friends,  whom  they  had  smiled  into  the  army 
and  driven  into  rebellion,  and  who  have  billowed  all 
the  South  with  their  graves. 


A    HINT  OF  DESOLATION. 

All  the  region  around  Chattanooga  is  so  rich  in  caves 
that  it  seems  almost  invested  in  a  cellular  tissue.  You 
find  them  in  unexpected  places.  Remove  the  little 
wash  of  earth  at  the  base  of  a  ledge  and  there  yawns 
a  cell,  the  entrance  worn  smooth  by  unknown  feet  in 
some  forgotten  time.  In  the  sides  of  the  mountains 
are  caverns,  often  of  great  extent,  and  yet  waiting  the 
torch  of  the  explorer.  Lookout  has  two ;  to  one  of 


IN    CAMP    AND     FIELD.  177 

them  a  large  number  of  women  and  children  fled  for 
refuge,  on  the  approach  of  the  swarm  from  the 
Yankees'  northern  hive,  and  there  some  of  them  are 
said  to  have  died.  This  is  of  so  great  extent,  and 
works  its  way  into  the  gloom  by  passages  so  numerous 
and  uncertain,  as  if  it  would  feel  out  the  secret  of  the 
mountain,  that  although  adventurous  boys — and  what 
will  thev  not  dare  to  do  ! — have  groped  their  way  into 
it,  yet  its  recesses  remain  a  mystery.  Some  of  these 
caves  have  figured  in  the  story  of  the  rebellion,  from 
the  "  villainous  saltpetre "  they  supplied.  Others, 
within  a  half  hour's  stroll  of  the  heart  of  Chattanooga, 
that  have  evidently  failed  to  awaken  the  lazy  indiffer 
ence  of  the  former  residents,  had  they  been  within 
Yankee  reach  would  have  been  long  ago  explored  and 
christened,  had  their  little  legends,  and  borne  upon 
their  rocky  lintels  the  names  of  many  a  pair  of 
pilgrims. 

I  visited  one,  where,  perhaps  a  month  ago,  a  dis 
covery  was  made,  that  anywhere  else  but  in  the  Front 
would  have  been  a  nine-days'  wonder.  Here  it 
survived  nine  minutes.  The  entrance  to  the  cave  is 
abrupt,  and  a  tree  trunk  had  been  thrust  down,  perhaps 
by  a  curious  Indian  of  the  tribe  of  John  Ross  that 
once  ranged  those  lovely  valleys  and  raised  "  a  far  cry  " 
from  the  summit  of  Mission  Ridge ;  thrust  down  so 


178  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

long  ago,  that  a  dendrologist — a  tough  word  for  a 
writer  of  plain  English — would  be  puzzled  to  class  it. 
Well,  one  of  our  soldier  boys,  with  an  inch  of  candle 
in  hand,  bestrode  the  trunk,  as  coolly  as  he  would  have 
mounted  a  mule,  and  slid  down  into  the  under  world. 
His  venture  was  rewarded,  for  far  under  the  hill,  upon 
a  shelf  of  rock,  he  found  the  bones  of  a  man,  and 
beside  him,  within  reach  of  the  crumbling  hand,  an 
extinguished  torch.  The  story  was  meagre  but  it  was 
all  there  :  "  there  lived  a  man  ;  "  he  set  out  to  explore 
that  hollow  artery  of  the  mountain ;  he  grew  bewild 
ered,  weaned,  and  the  light  of  his  torch  and  the  light 
of  his  life  went  out  pretty  nearly  together.  No  matter 
for  his  name ;  he  died  so  long  ago  that  nobody 
remembers  that  he  ever  lived  ;  they  that  mourned  him 
have  been  mourned  in  turn.  So,  in  caves  and  out  of 
them,  "  runs  the  world  away."  The  soldier  generously 
offered  me  a  memorial  bone, — say,  of  the  forearm — as 
he  told  the  story.  I  declined  the  bone  but  kept  the 
story.  But  of  course  the  boy  managed  to  grave 
his  autograph  at  the  entrance  of  the  cave,  for  the 
American  man  has  a  passion  for  scribbling.  He  begins 
by  scrawling  his  name  in  every  fly-leaf  of  his  spelling- 
book — "  Jim  Boggs — his  book" — he  goes  on  by  writing 
for  the  newspapers,  and  he  ends  by  tracing  that  same 
illustrious  patronymic  upon  everything  he  can  reach. 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  179 

He  has  been  known  to  peril  his  neck  to  inscribe  it  on 
the  everlasting  arch  of  the  Natural  Bridge  of  Virginia. 
He  would  have  appended  it  to  the  old  stone  tables 
of  the  law,  had  he  been  in  the  corps  of  Moses. 

But  what  has  this  to  do  with  illustrating  the  desola 
tion  of  war,  asks  some  reader.  I  will  tell  him :  visit 
any  one  of  those  clefts  and  caves,  and  a  cat  will  be 
sure  to  put  on  her  rough  angry  coat  and  growl  at  you ; 
a  cat  will  dart  out  of  the  cave  as  you  go  in,  followed 
by  another  and  more  yet,  until  a  perfect  cataract  of 
cats  pours  over  the  ledges  and  down  into  the  ever 
greens.  You  can  see  them  everywhere  ;  cats  grizzled 
and  mottled,  white  and  black  and  gray.  It  will  amuse 
you  till  you  begin  to  think  of  it,  and  then,  when  it 
occurs  to  you  that  these  creatures  were  once  tenants 
of  hundreds  of  households ;  purred  the  winter  nights 
out  by  hearths  the  armed  stranger  now  treads  upon ; 
pets  of  children  now  scattered  and  gone ;  that  if  the 
people  have  not  called  upon  the  rocks  of  the  moun 
tains  to  hide  them,  at  least  the  cats  have  fled  to  the 
caves,  and  are  fast  relapsing  into  a  strange,  fierce  wild- 
ness,  then  you  begin  to  understand  the  desolation  of 
the  land.  Those  houseless  creatures  tell  you  as  plainly 
as  if  they  spoke  English  with  most  miraculous  organ, 
"there  are  no  homes  among  these  mountains!"  And 
this  is  the  hint  of  desolation.  But  to  turn  from  the 


l8o  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

caves  of  the  mountains  to  human  habitations,  perhaps 
no  better  idea  can  be  gained  of  how  rough  the  touch 
of  War  is,  even  at  the  gentlest,  than  a  look  about 
these  headquarters.  The  grounds  in  front  show  traces 
of  the  hand  of  taste,  and  that  hand  a  woman's. 
Graceful  shapes,  some  day  beautiful  with  flowers, 
written  over  with  the  autograph  of  dead  and  gone 
springs,  are  now  trampled  beneath  the  feet  of  orderlies ; 
and  groups  of  horses,  fastened  to  the  trees,  stamp  upon 
the  broken  borders  of  boxwood.  The  fences  are  swept 
away;  the  summer-house  has  been  torn  down,  trellis 
by  trellis,  for  kindling  wood ;  tents  fill  the  spaces 
among  the  evergreens ;  sentries  pace  in  paths  where 
ladies  used  to  linger,  and  army  wagons  craunch  through 
the  garden  turned  out  to  common. 

Within,  are  suggestive  souvenirs  of  the  old  time ; 
the  curtains  are  removed,  but  the  gilded  supports 
remain ;  a  tall  and  ancient  clock  ticks  away  in  the 
corner,  marking  Federal  time  as  faithfully  as  if  its 
master  were  not  recreant.  Very  grand,  in  its  day,  was 
that  clock.  Among  the  books  left  is. an  Album  belong 
ing  to  some  "Ada,"  daughter  of  this  house;  its  pages 
filled  with  crow-quill  assurances  of  love  forever,  by 
girls,  dating  all  the  way  from  New  Orleans  to  Chatta 
nooga  ;  its  dainty  little  devices  of  hearts  and  doves 
scrawled  over  with  rude  soldier  comments  in  huge 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  l8l 

soldier  fists.  But  three  living  relics  of  the  old  regime 
remain:  "Aunt  Jane"  yet  nods  her  turbaned  head, 
lone  queen  of  the  kitchen,  and  her  button-headed  boy 
Bill,  kicks  up  his  heels  on  the  broken  porch  or  swings 
from  the  grape  vine  as  he  wills,  "  for  massa's  gone 
away."  Last  but  not  least,  the  great  honest  New 
foundland,  "  Shiloh,"  watches  the  opening  door  for  the 
children  that  shall  never  come  again,  or  runs  distract 
edly  about,  called  many  ways,  like  Mercury,  by  many 
masters.  Thus  the  "  darkeys "  and  the  dog  are  the 
sediment  in  the  empty  cup  of  chivalry. 

You  sometimes  encounter  so  remarkable  a  fitness  in 
things  as  to  suggest  the  doubt  whether  there  is  any 
such  thing  as  accident.  Thus,  the  exact  locality  in 
Chattanooga,  whence  I  have  written  many  letters,  is  a 
two-winged  mansion,  a  little  inclined  to  be  stately, 
wherein  aforetime  the  Gothic  North  got  used  to  being 
buttered  and  eaten  like  a  sweet  potato,  and  the  shell 
of  the  Union  was  regularly  cracked  with  the  walnuts 
at  aristocratic  desert.  A  painting  in  oil  covered  the 
wall  above  the  mantel  in  the  room  where  I  passed 
many  an  anxious  day,  crowned  at  last  with  a  few 
golden  hours  of  exultation.  I  had  been  there  days 
and  had  only  given  it  a  careless  look,  for  an  army 
forever  on  the  eve  of  battle  does  not  furnish  the 
surroundings  most  favorable  for  fine-art  contemplation. 


182  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

But  one  night  as  I  sat  in  a  lazy  mood,  my  eyes  rested 
upon  the  picture  brought  out  by  the  flashes  of  the 
sweet,  cedar  fire.  It  was  Arnold  and  Andre  conferring 
by  the  light  of  "  a  lantern  dimly  burning,"  on  the 
banks  of  the  Hudson.  The  treason  lay  between  them 
in  certain  folded  papers ;  the  trick  of  the  lantern  lit  up 
the  features  of  traitor  and  martyr;  I  was  surprised  to 
find  it  a  startling  and  effective  picture.  And  there,  in 
the  gloomy  background,  the  three  patriots  were  waiting 
— Paulding,  Williams  and  Van  Wirt.  Find  me,  if  you 
can,  place  and  picture  more  accurately  adjusted  than 
this  Arnoldic  faith  in  this  old  homestead  of  secession. 

Two  Sundays  ago,  had  you  strolled  beyond  the 
picket  line  where  Mission  Ridge  trends  away  to  the 
South,  you  would  have  come  upon  an  old  homestead 
standing  "  where  once  a  garden  smiled,"  the  ruined, 
fenceless  grounds  lying  blank  and  bare.  The  meaning 
of  the  word  "  desolation,"  not  to  be  found  in  lexicons,  is 
written  along  the  face  of  all  these  regions.  Think  of 
the  dumb  field  that  makes  no  answer  to  the  blessed 
sun.  And  the  people  only  add  human  intensity  to  the 
picture,  for  they  look  like  men  and  women  whose 
almanac  is  a  fragment;  people  without  a  to-morrow; 
and  if  there  be  anything  in  this  world  more  desolate, 
I  have  yet  to  see  it.  It  was  a  lovely  morning-  and 
the  sun  brought  out  the  picture  painfully;  the  silent 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  183 

threshold,  the  orchard  standing  like  broken  ranks  after 
a  battle.  You  strike  upon  the  door,  and  it  returns  a 
hollow  sound  like  a  clod  upon  a  coffin-lid.  And  yet 
the  birds,  brave  in  the  loneliness,  sang  all  the  same. 
A  poor,  old  horse,  was  feebly  grazing  near  by,  and  a 
man  sat  on  the  ground  by  the  angle  of  the  wall, 
reading.  A  few  words  told  the  story:  that  man  was 
once  the  head  of  the  vanished  household ;  of  that 
little  firm  there  had  once  been  more  than  enough  to 
say  "  ours."  A  son  whom  he  had  educated,  became 
principal  of  the  Academy  at  Rome,  was  conscripted, 
and  his  fate  unknown.  Stripped  of  all,  garner  empty, 
fields  unsown,  the  little  band  wandered  away,  and  now 
he  came,  that  pleasant  morning,  on  a  lonely  pilgrimage, 
to  linger  out  the  day  around  what  was  the  very  ceno 
taph,  the  empty  burial  place,  of  a  dear,  old  home. 
Of  how  much  tender  and  delicate  sentiment  those 
scattered  and  strown  inmates  were  possessed,  I  cannot 
tell.  Probably  not  much,  and  it  was  better  so,  for  if 
GOD  does  not  always  "  temper  the  wind  to  the  shorn 
lamb,"  he  sometimes  blesses  the  creature  with  tough 
endurance. 


184  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 


A    LATE  BREAKFAST  AT  CHATTANOOGA 

The  January  days  of  the  year  '64,  when  the  first 
train  of  cars  was  vainly  waited  for,  were  long — winter 
days  though  they  were — and  the  nights  disastered. 
Clerks  in  the  Departments  held  their  pens  poised  in  air, 
the  word  unfinished  upon  the  page,  as  they  listened  for 
the  shriek  of  the  coming  train.  Soldiers  intermitted 
duty  as  they  bent  a  strained  ear  toward  the  angle  of 
the  wall  of  Lookout.  Even  hard  bread  was  a  luxury ; 
they  would  have  picked  up  the  crumbs  in  thankfulness 
that  fell  from  poor  men's  tables.  Somebody — I  think 
it  was  Liebig — said,  that  one  man  who  eats  beef  and 
another  who  eats  bread  view  a  difficulty  from  entirely 
different  stand-points ;  that  a  man's  dinner  "  flies  into 
his  head  "  by  the  same  sign  that  it  goes  into  his  stom 
ach;  that  what  he  eats  makes  thought  as  well  as 
muscle.  And  so,  to  learn  a  people  thoroughly,  you 
must  either  examine  their  larders,  smell  their  chimney 
smokes,  or  stroll  through  their  markets.  I  wonder 
how  the  Professor  would  locate  the  stand-point  at 
Chattanooga. 

The  mules  and  horses  were  starving,  and  gnawed  the 
rugged  bark  from  the  trunks  of  trees.  That  day  was  a 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  185 

Tuesday;  Wednesday  went  and  no  train.  Men  thought 
they  heard  it  a  thousand  times,  but  it  was  only  the 
sough  of  the  wind  among  the  mountains.  Thursday 
came,  and  men's  faces  grew  fixed  like  daguerreotypes ; 
there  was  but  one  anxious  expression  on  them  all. 
They  lifted  up  their  eyes  and  saw  Bridgeport  and  Ste 
venson  and  Nashville  filled  with  abundance  and  for 
them,  and  here  Famine  looking  them  full  in  the  face  ! 
They  were  like  men  athirst  in  the  desert,  for  whom  the 
magic  of  the  mirage  lifts  the  clear  waters  with  their 
cool  margins  of  green,  and  mocks  with  the  shadow  of 
blessing  their  dry  and  dying  eyes.  At  last  a  faint  and 
distant  cry,  then  nearer  and  clearer,  till  it  whistled 
down  the  winter  wind. 

Encampments  swarmed  and  all  men  worshiped 
toward  the  mountain.  And  then,  with  its  plume  of 
smoke,  the  engine  came  creeping  round  on  the  wall  of 
Lookout,  like  a  fly,  and  after  it  trailed  three  platform 
cars  laden  with  men  and  tools.  Slowly  it  felt  its  way 
over  the  rebel  track,  round  the  fearful  curves,  on  to  the 
town ;  then  to  and  fro,  steaming  up  here,  backing 
down  there,  and,  at  last,  wheeling  upon  its  heel  at  the 
turn-table,  away  went  the  engine  with  the  only  plat 
forms  ever  heard  of  that  all  men  could  agree  on, 
round  the  fore-foot  of  the  mountain  and  was  out  of 
sight.  Men  took  a  long  breath ;  homely  as  it  all  was, 


1 86  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

it  was  an  avant  courier  they  had  seen  ;  the  pioneer  of 
great  joy.  A  few  hours  went  by — but  men  could  afford 
to  wait  then  ;  nobody  was  famished  then — and  seven 
trains,  laden  with  the  staff  of  life,  came  thundering 
through  the  valley,  and  poured  .their  treasures  into  the 
empty  lap  of  Chattanooga.  And  it  is  a  Thursday  they 
take  for  Thanksgiving. 


A   POTOMAC   TRIP  IN   WAR    TIME. 

A  drop  down  the  Potomac  in  a  splendid  day  is  a 
thing  to  be  remembered.  The  undulating  shores, 
crowned  with  groves,  spangled  with  gardens,  dotted 
with  mansions,  tipped  on  the  sky-line  with  forts,  and 
finished  out  with  flags,  present  an  exquisite  picture. 
Milder  than  the  Hudson,  grander  than  the  Connecticut, 
and  lovelier  than  either.  We  make  out  into  the 
stream,  and,  looking  back,  have  a  view  of  the  Chain 
Bridge,  a  canary-bird  cage  flung  for  a  full  mile  across 
the  broad  river.  At  our  right,  looking  out  from  among 
the  trees,  lifts  the  columned  front  of  Arlington  House, 
the  abandoned  home  of  General  Lee  ;  at  our  left  swells 
over  the  city  the  dome  of  the  Capitol,  that,  like  Look 
out  at  Chattanooga,  you  can  never  lose  sight  of. 
Villas,  encampments,  golden  checkers  of  grain  fields, 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  l8/ 

spires  and  plumes  of  foliage,  landings,  and  there,  almost 
in  our  front,  the  ancient  city  of  Alexandria,  clustered 
in  the  valley,  and  sitting  grandly  about  upon  the  hills. 
Following  the  sweep  of  the  Potomac,  we  make  Fort 
Foote  upon  the  left,  a  bold,  bluffy  work,  able  to v  load 
iron  on  hostile  vessels  a  thought  or  two  faster  than 
they  can  stow  it  away. 

But  the  scene  on  the  river  will  make  you  forget  its 
shores.  There  is  everything  in  sight  but  a  Venetian 
gondola  and  a  Chinese  junk.  Coming,  going,  at 
anchor ;  with  one  wing  a-flutter ;  with  canvas  piled  in 
pyramids,  cloud  above  cloud ;  under  bare  poles  ; 
steaming  it  to  and  fro.  We  meet  fine,  sea-weedish 
ocean-going  steamers,  the  slender  tracery  of  their  side- 
wheels  looking  more  like  a  spider's  web  than  things  to 
walk  the  water  with.  These  steamers  are  black-and- 
blue  as  a  pugilist's  eye  with  soldiers ;  the  yards  dotted 
with  them ;  the  figure-head  bestridden  by  a  bold 
soldier  boy.  There  goes  a  North  River  steamer,  as 
light  and  home-like  as  a  country  villa.  A  couple  of 
canal  boats  are  drifting  lazily  down  to  Alexandria ;  a 
sea-gull  of  a  yacht  is  bracing  up  to  the  wind  there  ; 
saucy  little  tugs,  with  their  noses  out  of  water,  and  a 
frill  of  a  wake  about  their  sterns  like  a  scalloped  petti 
coat,  are  screaming  their  way  yonder.  One  of  them 
cuts  in  under  our  bows  and  scuds  away  before  us  as 


188  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

impudently  as  a  dog-fish.  It  is  a  curious  truth  that  it 
takes  a  little  creature  to  be  impudent ;  your  human 
tugs  and  terriers  are  as  brassy  as  a  "  Napoleon  gun." 
You  pass  a  gunboat,  homely  as  a  mud-turtle ;  you  are 
hailed  by  a  guard-ship  as  black  and  sleek  as  an  old-time 
snuff-box.  Our  blades  dip  dull  wood  and  rise  glittering 
silver ;  tubs  of  vessels  seem  oscillating  in  one  place  for 
an  hour  together,  while  arrowy  craft  dart  around  them 
like  swallows  on  a  mill-pond.  Among  the  flock  of 
various  craft  you  will  be  sure  to  notice  a  dark,  rakish- 
looking  vessel,  sharp  in  the  nose,  long  in  the  body,  with 
its  two  black  chimneys  at  half-cock,  and  its  masts  a-tilt, 
and  altogether  making  you  think  of  Captain  Kidd,  "  as 
he  sailed."  The  craft  are  as  varied  as  a  sailor's  notions, 
but  they  are  all  alike  in  one  thing;  from  the  cockle 
shell  of  a  sail-boat  to  the  ocean-going  monster,  they  all 
carry  the  flag;  vast  and  broad,  and  flapping  like  an 
eagle's  wings,  or  slight  and  fluttering  as  Desdemona's 
handkerchief,  it  is  the  flag  still.  This  gorgeously 
inscribed  fly-leaf  of  the  Republic  floats  everywhere 
here. 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  189 


IN  MEMORIAM.—AD  ASTRA. 

There  is  one,  away  there  in  Georgia,  of  whom  I 
think  with  an  aching  heart — Brigadier  General  Charles 
S.  Harker.  So  young — not  twenty-nine — so  courteous, 
so  generous,  so  modest,  so  winning,  so  gallant,  "  with 
an  eye  that  takes  the  breath  ' — can  it  be  the  shot  was 
ever  moulded  that  could  chill  such  vigorous  life,  and 
still  a  heart  so  noble !  A  Colonel,  at  first,  of  the  65th 
Ohio,  he  was  at  Shiloh,  at  Corinth,  at  Stone  River,  at 
Chicamauga,  at  Mission  and  Rocky  Face  Ridges,  and 
a  hero  everywhere !  I  knew  him  well.  With  the 
frankness  and  simplicity  of  a  boy  he  united  the  dash 
of  a  Marion  and  the  wisdom  of  a  veteran.  I  saw  him 
earn  his  "  stars,"  at  Mission  Ridge,  as  he  led  on  his 
brigade  like  the  tenth  wave  of  the  sea,  right  into  the 
hell  of  splintery  fire  and  shattered  shell.  I  saw  him 
the  next  morning,  and  nothing  about  himself — not  a 
word — but  everything  about  some  valiant  lieutenant, 
some  gallant  fellow  in  the  rank  and  file.  I  had  to  go 
elsewhere  for  the  details  of  his  own  story.  And  he 
is  dead !  For  them  that  loved  him  longest,  God 
strengthen  them.  Young  General,  good  night , 

Good  night  to  thy  form,  but  good  morn  to  thy  fame  ! 


190  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

While  threading  a  guerrillaish  forest  road  with  a 
Division  pushing  on  to  the  Front,  we  came  to  a  deep 
mountain  run  bridged  with  logs.  "  Here,"  cried  one 
of  the  boys,  "  is  the  old  star-gazer's  bridge,"  for  so  was 
General  O.  M.  Mitchell,  commanding  the  First  Division 
of  the  Fourteenth  Corps,  known  in  the  army.  u  Here," 
they  said,  "  in  a  rainy  night  as  dark  as  a  wolf's  mouth 
he  drew  his  woolen,  plunged  into  mud  and  water, 
tugged  at  the  logs  and  worked  like  a  beaver,  and  when 
the  bridge  was  done,  off  with  his  hat  and  cried,  '  now 
boys,  three  cheers  for  the  minute  bridge !  '  and  they 
were  given  with  a  will." 

And  yet  that  man  was  at  first  one  of  the  most  unpop 
ular  of  generals.  The  men,  impatient  of  restraint, 
worked  restively  in  the  snug  harness  of  rigid  discipline. 
Some  of  them  even  muttered  threats  of  making  his 
quietus  with  a  bullet  on  some  fighting  day.  He  was 
everywhere,  at  all  hours,  wherever  men  had  duty  to  do; 
he  was  severe,  stern,  and,  as  some  thought,  heartless. 
But  when  duty,  hardship  and  danger  came  in  a  cluster 
within  reach  of  his  hand,  and  he  plucked  it  with  a 
ready  grasp  and  the  lion's  share,  and  the  word  was 
"  come,  boys/'  and  not  "  go,"  then  the  discipline  he  had 
given  them  worked  like  a  charm.  Admiration  followed 
distrust,  love  succeeded  hate,  and  when  the  brief  his- 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  IQI 

tory— alas,  how  brief !— ended,  the  proud  record  might 
well  be  graven  on  his  monument : 

His  men  would  have  died  for  him  ! 

A  Division  General  turned  abruptly  to  me  with,  "  If 
you  write  anything  about  Wednesday's  affair,  as  you 
will,  don't  forget  Colonel  Miller,  of  the  36th  Illinois- 
one  of  the  most  gallant  little  fellows  that  ever  drew  a 
sword."  I  did  not  need  that  injunction,  for  Colonel 
Silas  Miller  rode  through  the  storm  to  the  summit  of 
the  Ridge  at  the  head  of  his  regiment  like  a  veteran, 
inspiring  his  men  till  the  little  36th  was  a  phalanx  of 
heroes.  The  Colonel  used  to  be  adjutant  of  types  and 
lead  a  column,  now  and  then,  in  the  old  days,  and,  true 
to  his  early  love,  he  headed  a  column  at  Mission  Ridge. 
But  before  The  March  to  the  Sea  was  fairly  begun,  the 
noble  soldier  obeyed  the  Great  Commander  and  lay 
front-face  to  the  stars.  The  36th,  twelve  hundred 
strong  a  breath  or  two  ago,  but  now  a  skeleton  regi 
ment — and  yet  its  soul  of  fire  within  those  ribs  of 
death  ! — bearing  a  banner  whereon  were  blazoned  such 
words  as  "  Perryville  '  and  "  Pea  Ridge,"  went  into  the 
battle  at  Chattanooga  with  four  hundred  and  fifty  men, 
and  stacked,  when  they  came  forth  from  the  fiery  bap 
tism,  one  hundred  and  fifty-nine  guns.  Not  a  man  in 
the  broken  ranks  but  will  answer  for  him  when  Fame 


IQ2  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

calls  the  roll,  as  did  his  comrades  for  the  dead  grenadier 
of  old.  Not  in  our  day  shall  Silas  Miller  want  a  tongue 
to  speak  for  him  and  answer  "  Here !  " 

Eight  years  ago,  a  week  after  the  battle  of  Chica- 
mauga,  the  following  paragraphs  were  written.  In  the 
light  of  history  the  world  confirms  the  judgment : 
When  you  read  the  story  of  the  immortal  "Hill 
Difficulty,"  whereon  General  Thomas  planted,  on  that 
battle-Sunday,  at  Chicamauga,  a  grander  growth  than 
ever  crowned  one  little  hill  before,  if  you  exalted 
George  Hemy  Thomas  to  a  very  lofty  niche,  you  may 
just  leave  him  and  History  will  keep  him  there  forever. 
I  do  not  assert  that  he  saved  the  Army  of  the  Cumber 
land,  but  I  believe  he  did  ;  that  the  salvation  was  not  a 
lucky  blunder,  but  the  result  of  brains  as  well  as  guns ; 
that  it  was  a  disposition  of  force  to  defeat  the  enemy's 
design,  struck  out  with  a  rapidity  so  wonderful  and  a 
wisdom  so  masterly  that  a  month  of  mathematics  would 
not  have  materially  modified  the  adjustment.  It  was  a 
stroke  of  what,  for  the  want  of  a  better  name,  we  must 
call  genius.  Not  one  of  those  men  that  draws  his 
sword  every  time  he  bids  you  good  morning,  General 
Thomas  is,  perhaps,  the  most  modest.  Combining  the 
energy,  resolution  and  tenacity  of  the  soldier  with  the 
simple  manners  of  a  gentleman,  he  can  handle  a  corps 
and  make  a  hammer  or  an  anvil  of  it  at  will,  and  yet 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  193 

he  is  one  of  the  few  in  the  Cumberland  Mountains  who 
does  not  believe  he  could  handle  the  Cumberland 
Army.  Meeker  than  his  Second  Lieutenants,  he  thinks 
quite  as  well  of  his  peers  as  he  does  of  General  Thomas. 

Do  you  know  how  he  looks?  Well,  if  you  will  just 
think  what  manner  of  man  he  must  be  that  should  be 
hewn  out  of  a  large  square  block  of  the  best-tempered 
material  that  men  are  made  of,  not  scrimped  anywhere, 
and  square  everywhere — square  face,  square  shoulders, 
square  step  ;  blue  eyes,  with  depths  in  them,  withdrawn 
beneath  a  pent-house  of  a  .brow,  features  with  legible 
writing  on  them,  and  the  whole  giving  the  idea  of  mas 
sive  solidity,  of  the  right  kind  of  a  man  to  "  tie  to," 
you  will  have  a  little  preparation  for  seeing  him  as 
he  is. 

Thus  ran  the  record  eight  years  ago,  and  now  the 
war-cloud  over  and  gone,  Death  found  him  where  he 
sat  in  the  midst  of  his  friends,  and  no  foe  within  all 
the  broad  horizon.  You  recall  that  dread,  tempestuous 
day  when 

'Mid  the  gusts  of  wild  fire,  when  the  iron  clad  rain 

Did  ripen  brown  earth  to  the  reddest  of  stars, 

And  baptized  it  anew  and  christened  it  Mars. 

In  that  moment  supreme,  to  their  bridles  in  blood, 

Like  a  rock  in  the  wilderness  grandly  he  stood 

Till  the  Red  Sea  was  cleft  and  he  rode  down  the  street 

With  the  fame  on  his  brow  and  the  foe  at  his  feet ! 


IQ4  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

Oh,  be  muffled,  ye  drums  !     Let  artillery  toll ! 

Cloud  up,  all  ye  flags  !     Earth  has  lost  a  great  soul. 

Gallant  THOMAS,  good  night,  bui  good  morn  to  thy  glory, 

Outranking  them  all  in  the  charm  of  thy  story  ! 

Like  a  shadow  in  sunshine  they  have  borne  thee  in  state 

Far  across  the  new  world  to  the  true  "Golden  Gate" — 

Philip  Sidney,  make  room,  for  thy  comrade  is  late  ! 


KEEPING  HOUSE    UNDER  DIFFICULTIES. 

When  people  hear  of  an  army's  being  on  half-rations, 
they  are  apt  to  think  of  a  man's  eating  his  boots  or  his 
brother,  or  some  such  tough  morsel.  So  far  from  this, 
the  soldier  does  not  live  who  can  eat  his  full  ration  and 
have  life  enough  left  to  quote  Shakespeare,  "  thou 
canst  not  say  7  did  it!"  Eating  a  whole  ration  is 
eminently  an  irrational  act.  Ordinarily  it  would  make 
a  man  as  torpid  as  an  anaconda  after  swallowing  a 
buffalo.  On  the  contrary,  the  men  drive  brisk  bargains 
with  their  surplus  rations,  and  very  absurd  stones  could 
be  told  of  the  trades  they  strike  up.  Half  of  them 
are  locomotive  groceries,  and  always  on  the  qui  vive  for 
a  barter.  To  be  sure,  you  will  not  see  the  delicate 
bones  of  many  quails  strewing  the  camps,  or  hear 
much  of  oysters  on  the  half  shell ;  the  food  is  coarse 
but  abundant.  I  have  sat  down  to  a  cup  of  coffee 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  195 

that  would  make  an  Arab  call  upon  Allah  and  the 
Prophet,  if  he  could  get  his  breath,  and  have  eaten 
pork  as  rusty  as  the  swords  of  the  dead  Knights 
of  Malta, 

"  Whose  souls  are  with  the  saints,  we  trust ; " 

have  attacked  a  cracker,  and  no  man  could  declare  that 
I  went  hungry  away.  Half  rations  does  not  mean 
half  starved. 

I  can  tell  you,  though,  when  the  Federal  cause  and 
the  Federal  army  were  both  in  uniform  and  both  decid 
edly  blue,  and  the  Federal  larder  was  about  as  bare  as 
the  cupboard  of  Mother  Hubbard.  It  was  in  the  fall 
of  '62,  when  General  Buell  began  to  worship  the  North 
Star,  and  Nashville  was  in  a  state  of  siege  for  three 
such  months  as  it  only  takes  six  of  to  make  a  round 
year.  Inside,  the  city  swarmed  with  enemies ;  there 
was  one  of  them  at  every  soldier's  elbow ;  they  fronted 
Headquarters,  they  flanked  Headquarters,  they  wore 
pantaloons,  they  wore  petticoats,  they  toddled  about  in 
rifle-dresses,  they  almost  rustled  in  long-clothes.  Out 
side,  there  was  a  perfect  cordon  of  foes ;  courier  after 
courier  was  sent  out  who  never  got  through  or  never 
returned ;  Nashville  was  hermetically  sealed. 

General  Negley  was  in  command,  and  Captain 
Edwin  F.  Townsend  of  the  i6th  U.  S.  Infantry,  in 


196  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

charge  of  the  Ordnance  Department.  But  then  it  was 
nearly  a  department  without  any  ordnance,  though  the 
enemy  in  the  city  did  not  suspect  it.  A  train  was  laid 
to  the  magazine  and  it  was  solemnly  announced  that 
should  the  outside  rascals  attack  the  town  and  worse 
come  to  worst,  why  that  train  would  be  set  off,  and  the 
inside  rascals  and  Nashville  would  be  blown  out  of  the 
State  of  Tennessee.  This  pleasant  assurance  kept 
them  all  in  a  distracting  state  of  hoping  and  fearing. 
Ten  thousand  tons  of  powder  could  not  have  done 
better  execution  so  long  as  the  Captain  did  not  light 
the  train ! 

Sunday  after  Sunday  was  set  for  Morgan  and  Breck- 
enridge's  coming.  How  their  friends  within  the  city 
knew  it,  no  man  could  divine,  unless  they  discerned 
their  approach  in  the  tainted  air.  But  they  would 
gather  in  little  knots  in  the  streets,  both  men  and 
women,  and  it  was  as  plainly  read  as  if  their  faces  had 
been  fresh-lettered  guide-boards,  whenever  they  had 
any  welcome  intelligence.  Many  a  Saturday  night, 
turkeys  were  killed  and  dainties  prepared  in  expectation 
of  their  gray-clad  knights  of  rescue,  and  in  a  mansion 
adjoining  the  quarters  of  Captain  Townsend,  the  lady 
actually  spread  her  bounteous  table,  on  one  of  the 
hopeful  Sabbaths,  for  the  special  delectation  of  John 
Morgan.  The  forces  within  the  city  stood  thus :  five 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  197 

thousand  Federal  troops  and  two  thousand  Confeder 
ates  ready  to  rise.  The  General  and  his  officers  acted 
with  the  utmost  energy,  but  they  were  like  Sterne's 
starling — "they  couldn't  get  out;"  nay,  worse  than 
that,  they  were  like  cats  in  a  bag,  they  could  not  see 
out ;  the  enemy,  his  numbers  and  proximity  were  mys 
terious  ;  the  friend,  his  position  and  purpose  were  alike 

* 

unknown. 

Perhaps  nothing  will  give  a  more  vivid  idea  of  how 
near  they  were  to  playing  Robinson  Crusoe,  than  a 
little  incident.  Two  or  three  times  during  the  siege, 
adventurous  persons  in  disguise,  and  by  a  circuitous 
route — as  if  one  hundred  and  eighty-five  miles  from 
Louisville  to  Nashville  were  not  miles  a-plenty! — 
worked  their  way  through  the  lines  with  a  Louisville 
paper  in  their  pockets,  old  enough,  had  it  been  a  puppy, 
to  have  had  its  eyes  open  five  days ! — and  the  Union, 
the  only  paper  in  the  besieged  city,  paid  twenty-five 
dollars  for  the  copy,  and  straightway  dispensed  small 
portions  in  extras,  to  a  struggling  crowd  starving  for 
tidings  from  "the  rest  of  mankind."  At  night  the 
dwellings  were  locked  up  from  the  outside  with 
bayonets ;  there  was  no  other  way ;  it  was  a  city  of 
pnemies. 

But  those  days,  whose  story  has  never  been  written, 
yore  not  idle  ones.  Strong  fortifications  were  thrown 


198  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

up,  and  every  preparation  was  made  for  a  stout  de-fense. 
Not  an  ounce  of  cannon-powder  in  Nashville,  the  Ord 
nance  officer  set  about  emptying  disabled  cartridges,  of 
which  he  had  as  many  as  of  effective  ones,  and  pulver 
izing  charcoal  to  incorporate  with  his  cartridge  glean 
ings,  that  the  mixture  might  behave  as  cannon-powder 
should,  and  burn  with  more  dignified  deliberation. 
And  then  about  the  canister :  they  had  no  tin,  but  they 
found  and  confiscated  it ;  and  that  done,  the  sides  of 
the  canisters  made,  how  about  the  ends?  They  found, 
in  a  coffin  warehouse,  sheet-iron  cut  to  the  pattern  of 
that  last  piece  of  furniture  mortal  man  is  supposed  to 
want,  and  it  was  just  the  thing.  They  did  not  direct 
that  iron  from  its  original  purpose  so  very  much ;  in 
stead  of  boxing  up  the  dead  foe,  it  was  only  to  box  up 
death  to  him.  Thus  they  made  six  hundred  rounds 
and  were  ready  for  business. 

Were  they?  They  had  forts,  but  how  about  the 
guns?  Well,  they  found  down  at  the  landing  by  the 
Cumberland  river,  lying  flat  as  a  raft  of  logs,  guns  that 
the  enemy  had  stolen  here  and  there — some  from  the 
Norfolk  Navy  Yard — all  stolen  but  one,  and  as  to  that, 
they  pilfered  the  materials  of  which  they  made  it — a 
columbiad  marked  "  Memphis."  These  guns  were  all 
loaded,  some  with  three  charges  of  powder,  and  spiked 
when  the  chivalry  departed,  but  the  garrison  made 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  199 

wheels  and  mounted  them,  and  put  them  in  position, 
and  had  nine  twenty-four-pounders  and  four  one-hun 
dred-pound  "Parrotts"  as  a  part  of  their  armament, 
and  were  ready  for  business. 

Were  they?  They  had  guns,  but  how  about  the  shot 
and  shell?  And  so  they  took  to  digging  around  the 
town,  and  prying  into  improbable  places,  and  the  hid 
den  shot  and  shell  turned  out  a  bountiful  crop.  And 
the  secession  women  were  delighted  at  last.  Morgan 
and  Breckenridge  appeared  over  the  edge  of  the  hills. 
Our  guns  showed  their  teeth  and  growled  at  them 
twice,  and  they  slipped  back  out  of  sight  to  make  ready 
for  new  approaches.  To  bring  a  brief  story  of  long 
days  to  an  end,  one  fine  day — "  December "  was  "as 
pleasant  as  May"  that  morning! — about  eight  o'clock, 
the  cavalry  vanguard  of  the  army  of  Rosecrans 
clattered  on  to  the  bridge  and  streamed  into  the  city ; 
and  so  boxed  up  had  the  besieged  been,  that  they 
did  not  know  the  army  had  left  Bowling  Green  till  its 
troopers  rode  through  their  narrow  horizon  into  sight. 
And  so  ended  the  story  of  the  Robinson  Crusoes 
of  Nashville. 


2OO  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 


"NEARNESS   OF  MIND." 

In  war,  if  anywhere,  men  must  sleep  with  the  soul, 
like  the  revolver,  under  their  pillows — must  have  what 
the  old  Greeks  called  nearness  of  mind,  and  their  wits, 
like  their  weapons,  within  easy  reach  So  Farragut, 
the  Admiral,  lashed  to  the  mast-head  like  Ulysses  pass 
ing  the  Isle  of  the  Syrens,  when  his  ships  went 
courtesying  like  stately  dames  into  the  Bay  of  Mobile, 
always  kept  his  wits  where  he  could  find  them  in  the 
dark ;  the  man  who,  when  the  Southern  lady  asked  him 
why  he  did  not  take  Charleston,  and  was  he  not  afraid 
of  Fort  Morgan,  replied,  "  Madam,  if  I  were  ordered  to 
take  '  the  other  place '  I  would  sail  for  it !  w  Nothing 
so  inspires  the  rank  and  file  with  faith  in  their  leaders— 
the  faith  that  tones  men  up  and  makes  more  and 
nobler  of  them  than  there  was  before.  It  is  the  prin 
ciple  recognized  by  the  great  Frederick  when  he 
addressed  his  General :  "  I  send  you  against  the 
enemy  with  sixty  thousand  men."  "  But,  sire,"  said 
the  officer,  "there  are  only  fifty  thousand."  "Ah,  I 
counted  you  as  ten  thousand,"  was  the  monarch's  wise 
and  quick  reply.  I  have  a  splendid  illustration  of  this 
in  an  incident  that  occurred  on  the  dreadful  Sunday  at 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  2OI 

Chicamauga.  It  was  near  four  o'clock  on  that  blazing 
afternoon,  when  a  part  of  General  James  B.  Steedman's 
division  of  the  Reserve  Corps  bowed  their  heads  to  the 
hurtling  storm  of  lead,  as  if  it  had  been  rain,  and 
looked  at  each  other,  and  betrayed  signs  of  breaking. 
The  line  wavered  like  a  great  flag  in  a  breath  of  wind. 
They  were  as  splendid  material  as  ever  shouldered  a 
musket,  but  then  what  could  they  do  in  such  a  blinding 
tempest  ?  General  Steedman  rode  up.  A  great,  hearty 
man,  broad-breasted,  broad-shouldered,  a  face  written 
all  over  with  sturdy  sense  and  stout  courage,  he  realized 
the  ideal  of  my  boyhood,  when  I  used  to  read  of  the 
stout  old  Morgan  of  the  Revolution.  Well,  up  rode 
Steedman,  took  the  flag  from  the  color-bearer,  glanced 
along  the  wavering  front,  and  with  that  voice  of  his 
that  could  talk  against  a  small  rattle  of  musketry  cried 
out,  "Go  back,  boys,  go  back,  but  the  FLAG  can't  go 
with  you  !  " — grasped  the  staff,  wheeled  his  horse  and 
rode  down  into  the  harvest  of  death.  Need  I  tell  you 
that  the  column  closed  up,  grew  firm  and  true  and  tem 
pered  as  steel,  swept  down  on  the  foe  like  a  blade  in 
the  archangel's  hand,  and  made  a  record  that  shall  live 
when  their  graves  are  as  empty  as  the  cave  of  Machpe- 
lah !  The  blood  of  the  Minute-men  of  Concord  and 
Lexington  was  not  all  lost  in  the  thirsty  earth  of  the 
Revolution. 


202  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

Within  the  same  hour  and  on  the  same  field 
occurred  one  of  those  incidents  that  make  the  stoutest 
heart  stand  still.  Word  was  brought  to  General  Gor 
don  Granger  of  the  Reserve  Corps,  in  the  midst  of  the 
tempest,  that  a  certain  regiment  had  but  one  round  of 
ammunition.  The  blessed  saltpetre  was  expected 
every  moment,  but  it  had  not  come.  "  But  one  round 
of  ammunition,  have  you  ? "  said  the  General.  "  Go 
back  and  tell  them  to  fix  bayonets,  to  save  that  one 
round — to  lie  down  and  wait  till  the  enemy  are  within 
eight  feet,  to  deliver  their  fire  and  give  them  trie  bal 
ance  in  cold  steel.  May  I  depend  on  you  ? "  "  You 
may,"  was  the  reply,  and  the  trust  was  well  placed,  and 
the  pledge  was  honored. 


WAR  AND    WORDS. 

No  one  has  failed  to  observe  the  effect  of  the  War 
upon  common  speech.  It  shuts  the  old-time  tedious 
talks  together  as  if  they  were  telescopes  the  observers 
had  done  with.  It  makes  people  sharp,  short  and 
decisive  as  a  telegram.  WThen  the  men  of  the  7Qth 
Pennsylvania  presented  their  colonel  with  an  elegant 
sword,  the  speech  and  the  reply  were  like  two  sweeps 
of  a  sabre :  "  Colonel,  here  is  a  bully  sword — it  comes 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  203 

from    bully    fellows — take    it    and    use    it    in    a    bully 


manner  I 


And  the  Colonel  cut  back  again  with,  "  Captain,  I 
accept  the  bully  gift — that  was  a  bully  speech — let  us 
take  a  bully  drink !  "  The  whole  ceremonial  dwindled 
down  to  something  as  direct  as  a  duel  and  as  brief  as 
a  proverb. 

One  April  evening,  while  in  Lookout  Valley,  General 
Hooker  had  a  grand  time  clearing  his  guns  of  rust, 
bringing  his  batteries  into  brisk  play  in  the  semblance 
of  a  battle.  Right,  left  and  center,  the  columns  of 
white  smoke  rolled  up  over  the  valley's  brim  and  hung 
in  heavy  clouds  over  the  scene.  It  was  a  regular  set-to 
of  loud  talk,  but,  like  some  speakers  we  have  heard, 
the  words  were  round  and  fine,  but  the  meanings  had 
somehow  gone  out  of  them.  William  the  Quaker  can 
not  conceive  quite  as  well  as  William  the  Conqueror, 
how  much  more  eloquent  and  momentous  are  the  utter 
ances  of  artillery  as  heard  in  battle  than  when  resonant 
with  the  empty  thunders  of  the  blank  cartridge. 
Even  the  directest  of  soldiers  do  not  object  to  speech, 
but  they  want  the  fire  delivered  from  shotted  guns. 

A  little  while  ago  you  might  have  listened  out  half 
a  session,  in  Representative  Hall  or  Senate  Chamber, 
and  never  heard  one  word  that  would  prove  the 
prophetic  day  unborn,  when  the  leopard  and  the  lamb, 


204  PICTURES     OF     LIFE 

the  lion  and  a  little  child  shall  make  up  the  happy 
family  of  "  the  good  time  coming."  But  now,  you  can 
hardly  be  there  an  hour  that  the  nation's  new  and 
bloody  business  does  not  intrude  ;  debate  is  broken  in 
upon  by  tidings  from  our  armies  in  the  field  ;  the  very 
dialect  of  war  has  crept  into  legislative  speech ;  the 
Senator  "  changes  his  base  "  or  "  flanks  "  his  opponent 
or  "  carries  the  works."  The  Representative  "  steals 
a  march "  or  leads  "  a  forlorn  hope "  or  delivers  an 
"  enfilading  fire." 

And  this  new  tongue  has  gone  into  the  sacred  desk 
as  well.  The  "  God  of  battles  "  is  the  being  to  whom 
they  pray,  and  the  declaration  of  the  Great  Apostle 
to  the  Gentiles,  *•'  I  have  fought  the  good  fight — I  have 
kept  the  faith,'  is  deemed  as  much  the  utterance  and 
the  epitaph  of  the  true  soldier  as  of  him  who  stood  on 
Mars'  Hill ,  for  do  not  we  all  stand  on  Mars'  Hill  ?  It 
is  "  the  sword  of  the  Lord  and  of  Gideon,"  and  "  the 
soldier  of  the  Cross,"  and  "  terrible  as  an  army  with 
banners"  they  tell  us  of;  the  war-horse  of  Job  is  as 
bright  as  a  new  picture,  and  the  story  of  those  out 
stretched  arms,  sustained  till  the  going  down  of  the 
sun,  while  the  battle  rolled  on,  is  read  with  an  interest 
before  unknown.  Illustrations  are  no  longer  plucked 
from  the  gentle  Sermon  on  the  Mount ;  the  lilies  of 
the  field  and  Sharon's  roses  bloom  on  untouched. 


IN    CAMP    AND     FIELD.  205 

Even  a  piece  of  artillery  is  christened  out  of  the 
beatitudes — those  melodious  blessings  that  hang  like 
a  chime  of  bells  in  the  very  top  of  the  Saviour's 
speech,  and  "  blessed  are  the  peacemakers "  is  trans 
lated  out  of  the  original  Greek  into  the  dialect  of 
gunpowder. 


ALEXANDRIA    IN  '64.— SOLDIERS'   REST. 

A  steam  ferry,  asthmatic  and  greasy,  is  a  very  slender 
provocation  to  much  poetry,  but  when  the  boatman 
threw  out  the  line,  and  I  set  foot  on  shore,  I  could 
not  forget  it  was  my  first  touch  of  'the  mother  of 
Presidents."  A  narrow  street,  paved  with  boulders, 
invites  you  grimly,  and  a  barricade  thrown  across  it  lets 
you  through  its  ponderous  gateway.  You  go  banging 
up  the  street  as  if  you  were  riding  a  trip-hammer. 
The  signs  that  glare  at  you  along  the  river  are  sugges 
tive — "  Plaster  mills  and  Guano  " — and  you  remember 
that  the  "  sacred  soil ''  is  worn  so  poor  and  thin  that  it 
needs  all  sorts  of  tonics  to  keep  it  up,  for  the  sweat  of 
the  brow  that  used  to  fall  there  never  yet  fattened  the 
ground  it  fell  on.  But  the  fields  of  "  the  old  Domin 
ion  "  are  growing  richer,  day  by  day,  and  the  rain  is  red 
that  waters  them.  GOD  clear  away  the  cloud. 


206  PICTURES    OF     LIFE 

In  Alexandria  five  Colonial  Governors  met,  almost  an 
hundred  years  ago,  and  hence  Braddock  set  forth  on 
the  expedition  from  which  he  never  returned.  The 
church  yet  stands  that  claims  a  dead  vestryman  in  the 
man  of  Mount  Vernon.  Like  a  quiet,  old  Virginia 
gentleman,  with  nothing  to  do,  Alexandria  sits  by  the 
Potomac,  seven  miles  below  Washington,  and  lazily 
watches  the  dome  of  the  capitol  all  the  long  summer 
afternoons.  But  its  sleepy  glory  has  departed,  and  it 
has  pulsated  like  a  great  heart,  and  through  it  men 
have  throbbed  out  to  battle  by  the  hundred  thousand, 
and  rations  by  millions. 

Going  through  the  old  burial  places  of  the  ancient 
city,  you  reach  a  beautiful  spot  of  seven  acres,  only  a 
little  breadth  of  the  ridged  and  mighty  field  of  graves. 
It  is  the  United  States  Military  Cemetery  in  Virginia. 
Begun  in  1862,  the  willing  years  have  helped  the  taste 
ful  hands ;  tree,  flower  and  shrub  lend  fragrance  and 
beauty ;  a  monument  is  to  lift  its  graceful  shape,  a  sort 
of  strange  vignette  with  a  broad  border  in  Death's 
hand-writing  all  around.  At  the  right,  as  you  enter, 
the  white  head-boards  glitter  in  the  sun.  Two  thou 
sand  three  hundred  and  forty-six  of  them  already — a 
whole  brigade  of  soldiers  fast  asleep !  Here  and  there, 
a  tablet  bears  that  dreary  word,  "  Unknown ;  "  many 
show  the  touch  of  a  loving  hand;  all  are  laid  like 


IN     CAMP    AND     FIELD.  2O/ 

Christians  in  their  beds  of  peace.  A  little  building  in 
the  center,  flanked  with  a  green-house,  is  occupied  by  a 
clerk  in  charge,  who  dwells  in  the  heart  of  that  strange, 
silent  neighborhood.  It  is  proposed  to  erect  a 
monument  in  the  center  of  this  acre  of  GOD,  and 
contributions  are  daily  made.  Many  a  boy  in  blue 
passes  along  the  breathless  ranks,  and,  turning  away, 
leaves  his  little  offering  for  his  dead  comrades'  sake, 
thinking,  I  dare  to  say,  not  once  in  a  thousand  times 
that  perhaps  he  is  paying  a  tribute  for  his  own. 

Approaching  the  Cemetery,  I  fell  into  line  behind  a 
funeral  procession,  and  so  passed  within  the  white  gate 
of  the  field  of  silence.  There  were  three  ambulances, 
each  bearing  a  stained  coffin  covered  with  the  flag. 
Twelve  soldiers  marched  with  them  to  this  edge  of  the 
living  world,  and  there  drew  up  in  line,  with  uncovered 
heads,  beside  the  open  graves.  As  the  coffins  one  after 
one  were  lowered,  the  drums  gave  three  low  ruffles,  as 
sad  as  a  sighing,  and  the  sword  of  the  officer  sank  rev 
erently  earthward.  And  then,  the  Chaplain  stood  forth 
and  read,  "  Lord,  hadst  thou  been  here  my  brother  had 
not  died ;"  and  then  he  prayed  a  soldier's  prayer,  for 
the  flag  and  them  that  bear  it ;  the  ambulances  wheeled 
away,  the  escort  filed  after  them,  the  fifes  and  drums 
struck  up  a  merry  tune — "so  dies  in  human  hearts  the 


208  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

thought  of  death  " — and  the  strange  pageant,  bare  and 
severe  as  if  a  Puritan  had  planned  it,  was  ended. 

And  yet  it  was  such  a  scene  as  would  leave  a  litho 
graph  on  the  heart.  Rachel  was  not  there ;  no  veiled 
and  speechless  sorrow.  I  thought  of  the  mother,  sister, 
sweetheart,  wife,  and,  for  the  moment,  I  stood  mourner 
in  her  stead.  I  looked  around  as  the  simple  rites  went 
on.  Negroes,  that  were  digging  graves  and  making 
paths  had  ceased  their  work,  and  stood  with  uncovered 
heads  all  over  the  cemetery ;  one  grizzled  sexton,  the 
"  Uncle  Tom"  aforetime  of  some  old  plantation,  knelt, 
his  gray  head  bowed  between  his  hands ,  four  or  five 
little  atoms  of  Africa  that  had  been  dropping  pebbles 
in  a  waiting  grave — the  man  not  dead  who  yet  should 
be  its  tenant ! — stood  dumb  and  dark  as  the  head  of  a 
note  in  a  musical  score,  each  with  his  box  of  ivory  shut 
tight ;  and  they  all  made  a  striking  picture  of  the  pro 
verbial  reverence  of  the  race.  But  a  robin  on  a  tree 
near  by  sang  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  and  the  sun 
shone  on,  as  if  there  were  no  clouds  in  the  world  save 
those  that  float  in  heaven. 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  2OQ 


WASHINGTON  IN  JULY,  '64. 

Washington,  "  the  only  child  of  the  Union,"  has  ten 
dencies  to  ague.  Perhaps  it  is  not  strange,  since  in 
1814,  it  had  a  chill  and  a  flash  of  British  fever  that 
should  have  crimsoned  England  with  the  blush  of 
shame.  From  the  beginning  of  this  war  it  has  had 
repeated  attacks  of  the  old  complaint,  and  shivered  in 
its  shoes  with  the  fear  of  the  enemy. 

Surely,  never  was  child  so  girded  with  an  iron  zone. 
A  sweep  of  forty  miles  of  massive  works,  encircling 
both  Alexandria  and  the  capital,  studded  with  almost 
sixty  forts,  filled  in  with  sixty  batteries  more,  ribbed 
with  rifle  pits,  beaded  with  bombs,  this  battle  sash  of 
wonderful  fabric  woven  in  the  loom  of  war,  is  bound 
about  the  Federal  city. 

It  is  Sunday  morning,  the  tenth  of  July.  That  the 
enemy  is  within  sixteen  miles  of  Baltimore,  and,  like 
John  Brown's  soul,  still  "  marching  on,"  does  not  dis 
turb  this  city's  lazy  lassitude  ;  it  just  rises  on  its  elbow 
and  listens  in  the  sun.  To  be  sure,  it  hums  a  little 
around  the  hotels,  but  the  more  important  movements 
go  noiselessly  on.  The  newsboys,  as  I  finished  that 
sentence,  were  rushing  frantically  by,  crying  "wolf" 
and  the  " extra"  with  voices  like  young  roosters. 


210  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

Bands  of  music,  bodies  of  infantry  and  little  clouds 
of  cavalry  begin  to  pass  across  the  city  ,  hard  riders 
dash  through  the  streets ;  engines  are  harnessed  to  the 
trains  ;  steamers  draw  heavy  breaths  and  give  symptoms 
of  waking ;  the  treble  of  the  newsboys  flaunting  their 
second  extra,  and  singing  out,  "  rebels  a  marchin'  on  to 
Washin'ton ! "  again  startles  you,  and  at  last  the  city 
brushes  the  poppy  leaves  off  its  eyelids  and  is  broad 
awake.  It  leans  out  of  windows ;  it  comes  fairly  out 
of  doors ;  it  ties  itself  in  knots  on  street  corners ;  it 
buys  " extras"  and  reads  them;  it  hears  rumors  and 
believes  them  ;  it  whistles  a  little  and  tries  to  look 
unconcerned. 

The  President  visits  the  works ;  heavy  artillery  and 
reserve  guards  are  moved  to  the  northern  fortifications, 
and  the  capital  is  thoroughly  aroused.  But  it  need  not 
be  ashamed  of  a  good  honest  sensation.  Roast  pig — 
according  to  Lamb,  strangely  enough — was  a  discovery. 
Washington  has  a  sensation.  Possibly  it  is  not  pleas 
ant,  but  then  it  is  a  tonic.  I  stroll  along  the  Avenue. 
Everybody  from  king  to  kaiser  is  saying  "  trenches — 
cavalry — defenses  —  rebels."  Night  comes,  and  the 
tramp  of  marching  regiments  beats  the  pavements,  and 
the  glittering  barrels  of  muskets  flash  in  the  uncertain 
glimmer  from  windows  along  the  way.  It  is  the  ad 
vance  of  the  Sixth  Corps,  General  Wright  commanding, 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  211 

en  route  for  Fort  Stevens,  and  not  a  minute  too  soon. 
Probably  no  man  in  Washington — the  President  not 
excepted — bore  about  with  him  so  great  a  burden  of 
care  and  solicitude  as  William  H.  Seward,  the  Secre 
tary  of  State.  From  his  point  of  observation  the  mere 
material  destruction  was  immaterial ;  it  was  not  a  ques 
tion  of  battle  lost  or  won  ;  of  works  carried  or  defended, 
but  something  above  and  beyond  them  all.  The  At^ 
lases,  with  starry  worlds  on  their  shoulders,  are  dealing 
with  sections  of  our  own  country,  but  his  relations,  are 
with  the  civilized  globe ;  the  feelings  of  an  American 
North,  in  view  of  possible  disaster,  concern  him  less 
than  the  judgment  of  a  watching  World.  It  was  this 
thought  that  may  have  lent  a  dignity  to  the  raid  it  had 
not  otherwise  attained.  With  masterly  skill  he  had 
kept  the  ship  upon  an  even  keel ;  no  nation  on  the 
planet  had  sought  to  bring  it  to,  with  a  saucy  gun  ; 
what  logic  the  Christendom  across  the  sea  would  find 
in  the  mere  suspicion  that  the  Capital  could  be 
insulted,  if  not  imperiled,  might  well  provoke  a 
thought.  Whatever  the  Secretary  might  have  felt, 
there  was  an  unwonted  briskness  in  his  step ;  he  leaped 
into  his  carriage  like  a  boy ;  he  rode  out  to  the  fortifi 
cations  and  watched  the  movements  with  an  earnest 
eye.  I  do  not  think  there  was  a  trace  of  anxiety 
apparent ;  but  I  believe  that  he  was  looking  beyond 


212  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

the  battle-zone  of  Washington,  beyond  possible  assault 
and  gallant  defense,  at  the  consequences  of  this  strange 
antic  that  might  lie  in  the  far  future. 

Monday  the  eleventh,  the  guns  of  the  enemy  can  be 
heard  in  the  suburbs  of  the  Federal  capital ;  he  threw 
out  his  skirmish  line  at  Tennally-town,  and  has  slowly 
advanced  cityward  ;  he  appears  near  Silver  Springs  and 
occupies  the  mansion  of  Montgomery  Blair.  The 
farmers  have  turned  their  backs  upon  rural  delights 
and  fled  from  green  fields  to  gray  pavements.  Generals 
Breckenridge  and  Early  stood  beneath  the  trees  on  Mr. 
Blair's  beautiful  grounds,  and  saw  the  sunset  upon  the 
dome  of  the  capitol.  Just  beyond  the  Ridge  lay  fifteen 
thousand  of  the  enemy,  and  parks  of  artillery.  All 
those  houses,  the  fringes  of  bushes  and  every  conceiv 
able  shelter,  swarmed  with  sharp-shooters,  who  picked 
off  our  men  upon  the  parapets,  and  to  whom  nobody 
seemed  out  of  range.  Creeping  up  almost  under  the 
muzzles  of  the  guns,  the  whistle  of  the  bullets  would 
admonish  the  cannoneer  that  little  messengers  fly  on 
grave  errands.  To  the  left  of  Fort  Stevens,  in  the 
Carberry  House,  the  rebel  sharpshooters  had  taken 
shelter  in  most  uncomfortable  neighborhood,  when  a 
shell  from  the  Fort  struck  the  cupola,  and  fairly 
drummed  them  out  of  quarters. 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  213 

So  passed  the  day,  and  the  enemy  never  showed  his 
hand.  His  artillery  was  over  the  ridgy  edge  of  the 
horizon,  and  never  gave  General  Alexander  McCook, 
in  command  of  the  northern  defenses,  a  glimpse  of  it. 
His  infantry,  whatever  he  had,  was  there  too ;  his 
fashion  was  to  come  down  the  hill  with  a  heavy 
skirmish  line,  to  feel  us  here  and  there,  to  scatter  out 
into  groves  and  bushes,  and  play  squirrel  hunter ;  then 
a  crack  or  two  from  a  heavy  Federal  whip,  and  away 
he  went.  He  evidently  thought  the  works  were 
manned  by  clerks  never  under  fire,  and  what  he  calls 
"  condemned  Yankees."  He  fairly  snapped  his  fingers 
at  us  and  played  "  the  siege  of  Washington  "  Among 
the  novelties  he  sent  us  were  piano  tuning-screws  in 
place  of  bullets,  and  bits  of  chains  and  buttons,  and 
all  in  all,  he  behaved  in  a  very  eccentric  manner. 
Altogether,  these  fellows  were  a  queer,  mischievous, 
rollicking  set.  They  brought  along  hymn  books  and 
song  books ;  they  wrote  bad  verses  and  pasted  them 
upon  trees ;  they  left  saucy  letters  for  the  President. 
They  even  brought  along  with  them  spelling  books! 
General  McCook  showed  me  one  belonging  to  James 
Regan,  "his  book,"  2Qth  Georgia  regiment,  and  the 
first  page  I  opened  to  read  "  The  Fate  of  the 
Robber." 


214  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

Tuesday  morning  finds  the  Federal  capital  humming 
like  a  bee  in  a  hollyhock.  Long  guns  sprouted  with 
bayonets  are  going  about  in  company  with  short  clerks ; 
black-coated  civilians  take  the  beat  of  blue-coated 
guards.  Admiral  Goldsborough  has  put  a  heavy  force 
of  his  men  in  Fort  Lincoln  and  the  rifle-pits ;  General 
Rucker,  Chief  Quartermaster,  has  rallied  an  army  from 
his  Department,  two  thousand  strong,  and  led  them 
himself,  as  you  might  know  he  would,  to  look  at  him, 
out  to  Forts  Stevens  and  Reno ;  the  clerks  in  the 
Departments  have  "  grounded  "  pens  and  shouldered 
arms  and  are  drilling  under  the  trees  near  the  War 
Department,  and  everybody  is  tugging  home  some  sort 
of  a  death-dealing  tool.  The  Sixth  Corps  is  in 
position  ;  other  troops  are  arriving ;  the  enemy's  oppor 
tunity,  if  he  ever  had  one,  is  utterly  gone,  for  "  blue 
Monday  "  and  the  opportunity  departed  together. 

Taking  either  Seventh  or  Fourteenth  street,  you 
leave  the  city,  cross  the  old  stamping  ground  of 
McClellan,  pass  beautiful  residences,  gardens  and 
groves,  and  so,  up  hill  and  down  dale,  until  you  reach 
a  "  Uriah  Heep  "  of  a  tavern,  squatted  by  the  road 
side — the  headquarters  of  General  McCook.  Just 
beyond  stands  Fort  Stevens,  a  little  ragged  to  look  at, 
with  an  abattis  of  dry  branches  of  trees  under  its  chin, 
like  a  scraggy  whisker,  but  a  strong  piece  of  War's 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  215 

solid  geometry  for  all  that.  You  are  three  miles  from 
the  border  of  Washington,  looking  north ;  Fort  De 
Russey  is  to  your  left ;  Slocum  to  your  right,  and  a 
little  nearer  the  city ;  Totten  yet  further  to  the  east  ; 
Lincoln  more  distant  still,  and  beyond  it  to  the  north 
east  is  Bladensburg.  This  fan-like  section  of  the 
northern  defenses  fronted  the  hostile  apparition.  A 
heavily  undulating  sweep  of  landscape  is  before  you. 
Descending  away  from  the  Fort,  you  have  a  little, 
shallow  valley,  three-fourths  of  a  mile  broad,  then  a  roll 
of  the  land,  with  a  depression  beyond,  and  then  a 
swelling  ridge,  perhaps  a  mile  and  a  half  distant,  that 
bounds  the  horizon.  It  is  confused  with  shrubbery, 
sprinkled  with  trees,  dotted  with  homes. 

And  all  the  time,  up  to  Tuesday  evening — July  1 2th— 
there  had  been  no  battle  ;  only  skirmishing  and  dashes 
of  cavalry,  and  soundings  of  our  line.  Ransom's  troop 
ers,  and  squads  of  Imboden's  command,  and  Mosby's 
men,  had  broken  out  in  spots  all  over  the  country 
round  about,  like  a  case  of  malignant  rash,  but  nothing 
tangible ;  they  melted  out  of  hand  like  a  wisp  of 
smoke.  Meanwhile,  our  men  were  ready.  Admiral 
Goldsborough's  blue  jackets  fairly  made  a  frolic  of  it, 
taking  a  hitch  in  their  pantaloons  and  smoking  their 
pipes  and  keeping  a  jolly  eye  out  for  squalls,  with  as 
much  composure  as  if  they  were  in  the  forecastle, 
listening  to  Tom  Longbow's  last  yarn. 


2l6  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

The  sun  had  burned  its  way  clean  through  the  day 
down  into  Tuesday  afternoon,  and  the  enemy  in  that 
orchard,  you  see  yonder,  was  getting  saucy.  And  then 
there  would  be  a  lull ;  and  then,  it  was  crack,  bang  and 
scatter ;  the  gray  and  blue  skirmish  lines,  within  short 
pistol  shot  in  places,  and  elsewhere  widening  away  to 
rifle  range,  were  playing  •' balance  to  partners."  It 
looked  very  little  like  a  battle ;  very  much  like  the 
prefatory  sparring  of  a  couple  of  pugilists  finding  out 
the  length  and  muscle  of  each  other  s  arms. 

The  Sixth  Corps  were  held  well  in  hand,  for  they 
chafed  a  little  at  hanging  round  the  heavy  artillery, 
and  were  eager  to  strike  out.  The  enemy's  style  of 
rushing  up,  delivering  his  fire,  dodging  behind  trees 
and  scudding  back  to  cover,  making  a  rabbit-warren  of 
the  landscape,  was  not  at  all  to  their  liking.  Things 
could  not  go  on  after  this  fashion.  Under  the  darkness 
of  the  night,  the  enemy  might  advance  his  line,  throw 
UD  breastworks  within  four  hundred  yards  of  the  guns 
and  pick  off  the  gunners  at  his  leisure.  And  so  it  was 
determined  to  find  out  what  this  Udolpho  with  his 
Mysteries  was  made  of. 

The  charge  was  ordered  at  six  o'clock,  Tuesday  eve 
ning,  three  guns  the  signal  for  moving  out.  At  the 
last  tick  of  the  battle  clock  they  went.  The  enemy, 
six  full  brigades,  drawn  up  in  two  lines,  watched  and 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  2 11/ 

waited,  and  made  no  sign.  They  thought  them  clerks 
and  invalids ;  handfuls  of  tow  to  be  licked  up  at  the 
first  touch  of  fire.  They  hurled  opprobrious  epithets 
at  them  as  they  came,  as  if  so  they  would  save  their 
gunpowder.  Out  into  the  open  ground  moved  six 
sifted  regiments — ah,  with  what  terrible  winnowing  on 
old  fields ! — numbering  eleven  hundred  men,  led  by 
Colonel  Bidwell  of  the  49th  New  York ;  eleven  hun 
dred  and  no  more.  Fort  Stevens  let  drive  a  salvo  of 
artillery  over  their  heads  as  they  went.  The  enemy 
delivered  his  fire,  but  the  Federal  line,  not  scorched  and 
curled  like  a  leaf,  came  easily  and  steadily  on.  The 
enemy  recognized  them  in  an  instant.  Toughened  to 
battle  as  a  sailor  is  to  the  sea,  the  veterans  of  the  Poto 
mac  pushed  out  into  the  open  ground,  and  to  use  their 
own  camp  phrase,  "  sailed  in."  There  was  no  mistaking 
them.  "  Are  you  there,  Yanks  ?  "  was  the  cry,  and  then, 
"  the  Sixth  Corps  !  the  Sixth  Corps  is  here,  by  G — d  !  " 
was  shouted  from  rank  to  rank,  and  the  rebels  stiffened 
sinews  stoutly,  but  it  was  useless.  The  old  smoky  fel 
lows,  that  snuff  the  battle  like  the  war-horse  of  Job, 
broke  through  the  first  line,  and  shut  it  back  upon  the 
second  like  the  battered  lid  of  an  old  book,  and  away 
went  the  six  brigades  into  the  hollow  and  over  the  hill, 
one  and  a  half  miles,  by  the  memory  of  John  Gilpin ! 
It  took  sixty  minutes  in  all,  and  that  was  the  end  of  it 


218  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

and  that  was  all  of  it.  No.  not  all,  for  the  defense  of 
the  city  cost  us  three  hundred  and  fifty  in  killed  and 
wounded,  and,  as  I  write,  they  are  engaged  in  the  sad 
work  of  removing  the  dead  who  were  buried  upon  the 
field,  to  a  more  befitting  resting  place.  All  who  fell 
before  the  city  are  to  lie  as  they  fought,  shoulder  to 
shoulder,  in  one  place. 

In  the  morning,  the  whole  "  Front,"  for  miles  out, 
was  as  empty  as  a  drum.  They  came  here  hungry  and 
active,  every  man's  belt  drawn  up  to  the  last  hole ; 
empty  stomachs  make  light  heels.  Their  flocks  and 
herds  were  well  under  way,  every  nose  of  them  all 
pointed  toward  the  Antarctic ;  their  wagons,  laden 
with  "  leather  and  prunella,"  and  entertainment  for 
man  and  beast,  were  stringing  across  the  flat  Potomac, 
the  Sixth  Corps  was  behind  them,  "  there  was  no  use 
knocking  at  the  door  any  more." 


THE   SCOUT  AND   THE   SPY. 

There  is  a  description  of  invaluable  service  requiring 
the  coolest  courage,  and  the  clearest  head  and  the 
quickest  wit  of  any  soldierly  duty,  but  which,  from  its 
nature,  seldom  appears  in  print.  I  refer  to  the  achieve 
ments  of  the  scout.  He  passes  the  enemy's  lines,  sits 


IN     CAMP    AND     FIET.D.  2IQ 

at  his  camp-fire,  penetrates  even  into  the  presence  of 
the  commanding  General ;  he  seems  a  Tennesseean,  a 
Georgian,  an  Irishman,  a  German — anything  indeed  but 
what  he  really  is;  if  he  falls,  no  friendly  heart  may 
ever  know  where ;  his  grave  is  nameless.  The  scout 
voluntarily  signs  away  his  right  to  be  treated  as  a 
prisoner  of  war.  If  he  is  detailed  from  the  ranks  to 
render  this  special  service,  he  is  denounced  as  a 
deserter  by  his  comrades  and  as  a  spy  by  the  enemy. 
He  takes  his  life  in  one  hand  and  seeming  dishonor  in 
the  other.  Like  the  Nomades  he  reckons  time  by 
nights  and  not  by  days ;  he  lurks  like  a  wild  creature 
in  darkness  when  it  is  in  his  heart  all  the  while  to 
stand  forth  like  a  man  in  the  day.  "  John  Morford," 
known  in  civil  life  as  Lewis  Carter,  and  one  of  the 
most  daring  of  Federal  scouts,  was  found  dead  in  the 
mountains  near  Chattanooga,  and  John  Carlock,  who 
had  achieved  fame  for  his  tact  and  daring  in  the 
Department  of  the  Cumberland,  was  killed  by  a  com 
rade,  a  member  of  the  Anderson  cavalry,  whom  he 
halted.  The  latter,  supposing  him  to  be  an  enemy, 
instantly  fired  a  fatal  shot.  The  story  of  Harvey 
Birch,  as  inimitably  wrought  up  in  Cooper's  "  Spy," 
lends  at  once  a  romance  and  a  dignity  to  the  office 
that  has  undoubtedly  led  many  a  brave  fellow  to  peril 
life  or  to  live  it  on  under  a  cloud,  in  playing  the  role  of 
the  scout. 


220  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

There  is  William  Crutchfield.  An  old  resident,  and 
for  years  proprietor  of  the  '  Crutchfield  House,"  know 
ing  every  road,  stream,  wood,  hill,  in  all  the  country 
round,  he  has  rendered  invaluable  service  to  the 
Federal  cause ;  brigades  have  moved  by  routes  he 
designated,  and  halted  at  camping  grounds  of  his 
selectior  A  rough,  angular,  uncourtly  man,  of  good, 
strong  sense,  I  have  heard  him  address  Major-Generals 
as  " you  fellows."  and  rattle  on  about  the  geography 
of  the  region  with  more  accuracy  than  a  gazetteer. 
While  he  himself  hap  been  obliged  to  do  considerable 
of  what  Leatherstocking  would  call  •'*  sarcumvention  " 
to  keep  out  of  the  enemy's  hands,  his  family  has 
remained  at  Chattanooge  through  all  weathers.  In 
one  or  two  instances  it  rained  iron  on  the  old  home 
stead,  but  the  inmates  lived  on  content,  having  read, 
perhaps,  Marryatt's  story  of  the  Fire-eater,  who  escaped 
in  battle,  because  he  always  put  his  head  into  the  hole 
the  first  cannon  ball  made  in  the  ship's  side,  as,  accord 
ing  to  Professor  Truman,  the  odds  were  32,647  and 
some  decimals  that  another  shot  would  never  come  in 
at  the  same  hole. 

Women — not  invariably  any  "  better  than  i.hey 
should  be  " — have  always  been  employed  to  persuade 
information  out  of  suspected  personj,  and  they  bring 
a  degree  of  tact  and  shrewdness  into  play  that  hirsute 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  221 

humanity  can  never  hope  to  equal.  Many  a  wasp  has 
been  caught  with  their  honey  of  hypocrisy.  A  subor 
dinate  Federal  officer  in  Nashville  had  been  long 
suspected  of  disloyalty,  but  no  proof  to  warrant  his 
arrest  rould  be  obtained,  and  so  as  a  last  resort  a 
woman  was  set  at  him.  She  smiled  her  way  into  his 
confidence,  and  became  his  "  next  best  friend,"  but, 
finding  that  ears  were  of  no  use,  for  he  could  not  be 
induced  to  say  one  word  of  matters  pertaining  to  his 
office,  she  changed  her  plan  of  attack,  and  turned  a 
couple  of  curious  and  beautiful  eyes  upon  him. 

Frequently  he  would  ride  out  of  town  into  the  coun 
try,  be  absent  three  or  four  hours  and  return.  For  all 
the  hours  of  the  twenty-four  but  just  these  she  could 
account.  Within  them,  then,  lay  the  mischief  if  mis 
chief  there  was,  and  she  began  to  watch  if  he  made 
any  preparations  for  these  excursions.  He  loaded  his 
old-fashioned  pistol,  drew  on  his  gloves,  lighted  a  cigar, 
bade  her  good  by — "only  that  and  nothing  more." 
Was  he  deep  and  she  dull  ?  Time  would  show.  At 
last,  she  observed  that  he  put  an  unusual  charge  into 
the  pistol,  one  day,  and  all  at  once  she  grew  curious  in 
pistols.  Would  he  show  her  some  day  how  to  charge  a 
pistol,  how  to  fire  a  pistol,  how  to  be  a  dead  shot? 
And  just  at  that  minute  she  was  athirst,  and  would  he 
bring  her  a  lemonade  ?  She  was  left  toying  with  the 


222  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

weapon,  and  he  went.  The  instant  the  door  was  closed 
behind  him,  she  drew  the  charge,  for  she  knew  quite  as 
much  of  pistols  as  he,  and  substituted  another.  She 
was  not  a  minute  too  soon,  for  back  he  came,  took  the 
weapon  and  rode  away.  No  sooner  had  he  gone  than 
she  set  about  an  examination  of  the  charge,  and  it 
proved  to  be  plans  and  details  of  Federal  forces  and 
movements,  snugly  rolled  together.  The  mischief  was 
in  the  pistol,  then,  though  none  but  a  woman  would 
have  thought  of  it,  and  so  it  was  that  he  carried  infor 
mation  to  his  rebel  friends  with  rural  proclivities.  The 
woman's  purpose  was  gained,  and  when  the  officer 
returned,  had  vanished  like  an  Arab  or  a  vision,  and  he 
had  hardly  time  to  turn  about  before  he  was  under 
arrest. 

Admiring  the  adroitness  of  the  achievement,  we 
cannot  help  regretting  that  a  woman  performed  it. 
The  memory  of  a  man's  mother  is  sacred,  and  he  feels 
that  whoever  wears  her  form  unworthily  and  debases 
woman's  graceful  gifts,  profanes  it. 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  22$ 


A  DIVIDED  HOUSEHOLD. 

The  complications  caused  by  this  most  cruel  war 
astonish  me.  I  learned  much  of  them  in  Georgia. 
Tennessee  and  Alabama,  but  they  are  even  more  sad 
in  Washington.  Young  men  disappeared  from  their 
homes  on  the  Sunday  of  the  enemy's  approach,  and  the 
next  I  knew  of  them  they  were  deploying  into  the  hos 
tile  skirmish  line.  A  few  squares  distant,  one  of  those 
poor,  misguided  fellows  is  lying  in  his  father's  house, 
fearfully  wounded,  and  by  a  Federal  shot  in  front  of 
Fort  Stevens.  So  sure  were  the  sympathizers  of  the 
capture  of  the  capital  that  rooms  long  darkened  were 
opened,  swept  and  garnished,  and  preparations  made  to 
give  high  banquet  to  the  conquering  heroes. 

In  the  Federal  trenches  before  the  capital  was  Gen 
eral  Rucker,  Chief  of  the  Quartermaster's  Department, 
and  across  the  little  valley  was  General  Ransom,  Chief 
of  rebel  cavalry,  his  old  regimental  comrade,  as  were 
Ewell  and  Longstreet.  Rucker  had  a  letter  from  the 
latter  just  as  the  little  cloud  of  trouble,  "  no  bigger 
than  a  man's  hand,"  began  to  show  in  the  horizon. 
Longstreet  was  with  his  regiment  away  on  the  frontier, 
and  the  boding  sounds  in  the  hollow  air  had  reached 
him. 


224  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

"What,"  he  writes,  "  does  it  all  mean?  Is  anything 
serious  impending  ?  "  To  General  Rucker's  reply  that 
he  trusted  not,  Longstreet  substantially  responded,  "  I 
hope  to  GOD  you  are  right ;  that  the  dissolution  of  the 
Union  is  not  threatened."  This  was  his  last  loyal  word 
to  his  old  companion  in  arms,  and  the  first  audible 
monosyllable  at  Sumter  found  them  arrayed  face  to 
face,  enemies  in  war,  though  in  peace  they  had  been 
friends. 

Take  it  at  Chattanooga :  Colonel  Fullerton,  Gran 
ger  "'s  Chief-of-Staff,  and  a  Confederate  officer  are 
talking  of  old  days  beneath  the  white  flutter  of  a  flag 
of  truce.  They  were  once  neighbors  and  friends. 
They  belonged  to  a  young  men's  club ;  there  were 
thirty  of  them.  Among  them  were  Frost,  Major-Gen 
eral  in  rebeldom,  and  Basil  Duke.  Twenty-six  of  them 
cast  off  their  allegiance,  as  if  it  had  been  a  worthless 
garment  instead  of  a  costly  vesture  that  should  have 
clothed  their  souls  with  honor ;  Colonel  Fullerton  and 
the  three  other  true-hearted  comrades  stood  by  the  old 
flag.  Even  the  writer  had  two  schoolmates  over  yon 
der  on  Mission  Ridge ;  one  of  them  a  Colonel  from  the 
Palmetto  State,  the  other  risen  to  the  doubtful  dignity 
of  a  rebel  General.  Alas,  for  the  days  that  are  no 
more  ! 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  225 

Look  at  the  grand  old  Second  Regular  Cavalry,  and 
you  will  marvel  to  see  the  rebel  Generals  file  out  of 
it ;  Robert  E.  Lee  was  its  Lieutenant-Colonel ;  Albert 
Sydney  Johnson,  killed  at  Shiloh,  belonged  to  it,  and 
so  did  Generals  Van  Dorn,  Hardee,  E.  Kirby  Smith 
and  Fitz  Hugh  Lee.  So  runs  the  tarnished,  tattered 
roll  of  the  dashing  troopers  of  the  old  Second. 

"  Blood  is  thicker  than  water."  At  Murfreesboro 
two  brothers  lived  apart  and  estranged  for  years  only 
to  meet  face  to  face  on  that  tremendous  field,  and 
more  than  one  musket  was  turned  aside  in  the  flash 
of  mutual  recognition,  that  a  brother's  blood  should 
not  cry  out  from  the  ground. 

Keep  on  entangling  the  world  in  the  web  of  the 
telegraph ;  bind  it  a  little  more  firmly  with  railroad 
bars ;  quicken,  by  a  few  plunges  a  minute,  the  shaft  of 
the  steam  engine ;  affiliate  men  a  little  more  in  affairs 
sacred  and  secular  by  the  agency  of  art,  science,  litera 
ture  and  religion,  and  foreign  war  in  any  accepted 
meaning  of  the  term  will  be  a  thing  impossible ;  the 
battle  roll  will  be  a  record  of  sharper,  bitterer  struggles 
than  have  yet  distracted  the  race,  all  kindled  to  the 
intensity  of  civil  conflict.  There  will  be  neither  Greek 
nor  Barbarian,  and  from  being  the  clash  of  organized 
mobs  of  strangers  war  will  become  the  fiercer,  deadlier 
strife  of  an  alienated  brotherhood. 


226  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 


THE   WAR  DEPARTMENT. 

The  thought  saddens,  as  it  goes  the  heavy  rounds  of 
the  twenty-one  hospitals  in  the  Federal  city,  these  July 
days  of  '64,  where  thousands  languish,  the  stricken 
heroes  from  the  battles  of  Virginia.  The  leaves  of  the 
linden  beneath  my  window,  that  swing  at  a  breath,  as 
if  the  tree  were  laden  with  the  green  pendulums  of 
little  French  clocks  all  going  at  once,  have  "  run  down  ;" 
and  there,  a  soldier's  emblem  of  these  broad,  brazen 
days,  they  lie  motionless  upon  the  air.  With  the  poor, 
wounded  boys,  time,  indeed,  stands  still.  I  wish  I 
could  tell  you,  in  words  befitting,  of  the  patience  of 
those  men  ;  how  they  treasure  their  terrible  wounds ; 
no  "  Old  Guard  "  of  the  Corsican  so  prized  his  cross  of 
the  Legion  of  Honor.  But  they  crave  the  gentle  touch 
and  voice  of  woman.  The  "  well  done,  my  men  !  "  of 
the  commanding  General  is  much,  but  the  cup  of  cold 
water  from  a  loving  hand  is  more.  She  is  not  repre 
sented  in  the  Cabinet ;  she  has  no  voice  in  the  Capitol, 
but  in  the  thought  and  heart  of  the  Federal  armies  she 
abideth  forever. 

Next  to  the  hospitals,  perhaps,  the  stranger  regards 
the  War  Department  with  the  deepest  interest.  He 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  227 

thinks  of  it,  as  the  spot  whence  the  slender  nerves  radi 
ate,  that  move  the  mailed  and  clenched  hand  of  the 
Government,  and  hurl  a  million  of  men,  like  mighty 
hammers,  upon  its  enemies.  And  so,  he  strolls  up  the 
Avenue,  by  the  great,  white  city  and  stately  columns 
of  the  Treasury  ;  by  the  sober  front  of  the  State  Depart 
ment  ;  by  the  uncertain  magnificence  of  the  President's 
mansion  ;  and  pauses  at  last  before  a  brown  brick  build 
ing,  three  stories  in  height,  with  a  little  growth  of  white 
columns  at  the  entrance,  and  altogether,  looking  as 
meek  and  harmless  as  a  Ladies'  Seminary.  No  trace 
of  "the  pomp  and  circumstance"  anywhere. 

It  is  Mars'  horrid  front  hidden  in  a  Quaker  bonnet. 
A  foreground  of  green  grass,  dappled  with  the  shadows 
of  linden,  maple,  ash  and  elm,  completes  the  illusion, 
and  he  expects  to  see  a  group  of  white-skirted  girls 
blossom  out  of  the  open  door  in  the  portico,  any  mo 
ment.  True,  the  iron  fence,  with  its  fasces  tipped  out 
with  tomahawks,  and  the  escutcheon  of  cannon  over 
the  entrance,  and  the  gilded  eagle,  are  a  little  suspi 
cious  ;  and  when  he  discerns  a  couple  of  soldiers'  knap 
sacks  lying  beside  the  door,  and  sees  "leaves"  silver 
and  golden  drifting  on  blue  shoulders  over  the  thresh 
old,  and  now  and  then  a  "star;"  and  hears  the  positive, 
energetic  step  of  the  Secretary  of  War  upon  the  pave 
ment,  and  catches  a  glimpse  of  his  next  neighbor,  the 


228  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

President,  coming  across  the  shady  green,  the  suspicion 
turns  to  certainty ;  the  War  Department  is  before  him. 
There  are  the  nerves  I  wrote  of,  strung  away  on  to 
Sherman  before  Atlanta,  and  down  to  Grant  before 
Petersburg,  and  out  to  banditti-haunted  Missouri,  and 
messages  from  fifty  fields  flock  like  doves  to  their 
windows ;  and  it  seems  to  him  fitting  they  should  come 
in  flashes  of  lightning,  and  not,  as  of  old,  beneath  the 
wing  of  "  the  bird  let  loose  in  Eastern  skies,"  the 
carrier-pigeon.  What  tales  of  triumph  and  disaster, 
of  wounds  and  death,  have  reached  those  chambers,  as 
if  the  birds  of  the  air  had  brought  them.  Perhaps  he 
says  to  himself,  "  ah,  no  love  messages  there,"  but  he 
thinks  wrong.  The  grandest  of  love  tokens  have 
flickered  in  at  that  window :  how  men  have  given  right 
hands  and  right  hearts  for  love  of  liberty  and  land ; 
how  they  are  "  married  unto  death  "  every  day ;  how 
they  press  their  bloody  brows  upon  the  breast  of  the 
bride,  fall  asleep  under  the  flag  and  are  content. 
There  is  no  pageantry  about  that  quiet  building,  and 
yet,  there  is  no  marble  pile  in  Washington  on  which 
the  thoughtful  eye  will  linger  with  more  earnest 
look. 

Beneath  the  shade  along  the  iron  fence,  a  detach 
ment  of  tired  soldiers  lies  fast  asleep  on  Jacob's  pillow, 
the  stony  pavement.  And  may  be,  it  is  a  Bethel  to 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  22Q 

some  of  them,  too  ;  and  wife  and  child,  or  the  girls  they 
left  behind  them,  may  be  ascending  and  descending,  in 
the  guise  of  angels,  the  silver  ladder  of  a  dream. 

Leaving  the  gate  of  the  Capitol  to-night,  I  met  an 
old  man  hastening  to  the  Baltimore  cars.  He  carried 
a  sword  tenderly  upon  his  arm,  as  if  it  had  been  an 
infant.  And  yet  he  was  no  soldier,  and  the  weapon 
was  no  new  toy.  He  was  a  father,  fresh  from  the  June 
fields  of  the  West — the  scabbard  was  battered  and  the 
hilt  was  stained.  He  had  given  a  son  to  GOD  and 
liberty,  and  was  going  home  with  the  sword  !  It  was 
not  the  first  time  I  had  seen  old  swords  borne  north 
ward  by  hands  unused  to  wield  them,  but  it  was  the 
first  time  its  full  meaning  had  come  home  to  me. 

All  this  summer  of  the  year  of  grace  '64,  Wash 
ington  is  thronged  with  strangers  seeking  a  sorrow,  or 
a  joy  so  like  a  grief  that  the  tear  will  express  it  far 
oftener  than  the  smile.  They  come  from  New  England 
valleys  and  GOD'S  Western  pastures ;  from  every  State 
that  has  a  soldier  in  the  Front.  You  will  see  men  in 
the  home-made  suit,  and  women  in  the  garments  of 
some  dead  and  gone  fashion.  Altogether,  it  is  a 
strange  mingling  of  this  new  element  of  homeliness 
and  heart  with  the  gay  whirl  of  Vanity  Fair.  Five 
hundred,  a  thousand  miles  these  wanderers  come,  and 


230  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

they  all  have  one  errand  :  they  seek  a  soldier  languish 
ing,  a  brother  wounded,  a  husband  dying,  a  first-born 
dead. 

There  are  scenes  almost  every  day  that  stand  at  the 
door  of  the  heart  and  knock  audibly  for  entrance. 
Take  one  incident  from  hundreds.  I  was  fellow- 
passenger  with  a  lady  bound  for  Washington,  and  she 
was  going  upon  the  one  errand.  She  had  a  son,  a 
young  Lieutenant  of  Company  E,  2d  Michigan,  who 
was  wounded  the  other  day.  Ah,  how  brave  George 
was,  and  how  dutiful  he  was,  and  how — but  it  is  all 
told  in  this :  he  had  a  mother  to  love  him.  And  she 
was  hastening  to  take  care  of  the  brave  soldier;  she 
that  his  young  eyes  had  worshiped,  looking  up  as  he  lay 
smiling  in  her  arms,  just  twenty  years  ago. 

"  How  long  will  you  remain  in  Washington  ? "  was 
the  question.  "  Till  he  is  ready  to  go  home,"  was  the 
quick  reply.  So,  through  the  mountains  of  Pennsyl 
vania,  through  the  monumental  city,  sped  the  train. 
The  capital  was  reached ;  the  location  of  the  boy's 
hospital  ascertained,  and  the  mother  hurried  away. 
The  next  day  I  went  to  the  hospital,  but  the  mother 
was  not  there.  "  Is  Lieutenant  George  S.  Williams,  of 
Company  E,  2d  Michigan,  here?"  The  leaves  of  the 
record  are  slowly  turned,  and  the  finger  moves  down 


IN     CAMP    AND    FIELD.  231 

the  lines,  of  name  after  name,  in  that  roll  of  honor. 
The  finger  halts  at  last :  the  officer  reads, 

:i  George  S.  Williams,  Lieutenant,  2d  Michigan," 

turns  with  a  quick  look  and  says,  "  died  day  before 
yesterday!  "  "  I  shall  stay  till  he  is  ready  to  go,"  were 
the  words  of  the  mother,  and  he  was  ready,  even  while 
she  uttered  them.  Why  not  write  upon  his  head-stone 
for  eulogy  and  epitaph, 

"  HE   WAS    READY   TO    GO  !  " 

Ah,  the  bravery,  in  these  battle  years,  is  not  all  at 
the  Front !  Bullets  fly  far,  borne  on  from  flight  to 
flight,  northward,  even  as  the  silver  arrow  of  Arabian 
story,  that,  driven  from  the  bow,  led  the  archer  a  weary 
way  to  a  distant  land. 


TWO  BA  TTLE  FIELDS  A    YEAR  OLD. 

The  arts  of  peace  follow  the  battle,  even  as  the 
peaceful  rainbow  the  grim  and  roaring  cloud,  and  grain 
grew  rank  at  Waterloo,  and  violets  fulled  like  the  moon 
and  turned  to  pansies  on  the  field  of  Inkermann.  So 
at  Mission  Ridge  and  Stone  River. 

The  calm-faced  clock  that,  across  the  Hall  of  Repre 
sentatives,  forever  looks  the  Speaker  in  the  eye,  has 


232  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

seen  laws  born  without  emotion,  and  generations  of 
legislators  come  and  go,  like  shadows  on  a  dial,  without 
regret.  With  what  patience  it  has  timed  dull  speeches 
unnumbered  ;  with  what  indifference  it  has  told  off 
little  moments  of  eloquence ;  and  how  unrelentingly  it 
lifts  those  bloodless  hands  to  heaven  in  sien  of  twelve 
o'clock. 

Were  battle-fields  as  changeless  as  that  clock's  dead 
face ;  had  the  passing  year  no  way  of  hiding  the 
unseemly  scars ;  did  not  the  sharp  acanthus  sometimes 
turn  Corinthian  and  crown  a  capital ;  did  not  time  grow 
loving  and  smoothe  the  ridged  and  rolling  graves  till 
they  subside  at  the  caress,  and,  like  the  troubled  sea 
at  CHRIST'S  command,  have  rest,  how  hideous  a  scrawl 
of  War's  wild  autographs  would  mar  the  planet's 
disc! 

It  took  ten  tons  of  ammunition  to  fight  the  battle  of 
Stone  River,  and  here  is  Murfreesboro  as  calm  as  if  it 
had  always  lain  in  the  lap  of  peace.  Asleep  in  the 
April  sun  of  '64  lies  the  broken  field  of  Stone  River. 
Could  I  help  regarding  it  with  an  earnest  eye?  The 
little  thread  of  water  in  midsummer,  but  a  torrent  in 
spring-time,  working  its  winding  way  between  high 
banks  to  the  North,  curves  abruptly  toward  the  western 
side  of  Murfreesboro,  and  makes  a  horse-shoe  where  the 
enemy  formed  their  line  of  battle,  sixty-two  thousand 


IN    CAMP    AND     FIELD.  233 

strong.     You  remember  the  closing  words  of  Rosecrans 
in  front  of  Murfreesboro  on  that  New  Year's  eve : 

"  Be  cool.  I  need  not  ask  you  to  be  brave.  With  GOD'S  grace 
and  your  help,  I  feel  confident  of  striking  this  day  a  crushing  blow 
for  the  country.  Do  not  throw  away  your  fire.  Fire  slowly,  delib 
erately — above  all,  fire  low,  and  be  always  sure  of  your  aim.  Close 
steadily  in  upon  the  enemy,  and  when  you  get  within  charging 
distance,  rush  upon  him  with  the  bayonet.  Do  this,  and  victory 
will  certainly  be  yours." 

Asleep  around  me  lie  two  thousand  Federal  dead. 
It  is  a  broad  Golgotha,  a  place  of  skulls.  Were  it  not 
demonstrated  that  it  takes  about  a  man's  weight  of 
lead  to  kill  him,  I  could  never  believe  that  from  the  hot 
places  of  the  field,  where  the  trunks  of  trees  are  honey 
combed  with  bullets,  and  where  your  brothers  and 
mine  stood  up  to  the  storm  without  flinching,  and  sank 
beneath  it  without  sorrowing,  one  man  could  have 
come  forth  alive.  So  hasty  and  imperfect  was  the 
sepulture,  that  yesterday,  hands  shriveled  and  black 
ened  in  the  sun,  looking  like  those  of  some  mummy 
from  the  pyramid  of  Cheops,  were  visible,  thrust  out  of 
the  earth  in  mute  appeal ;  and  as  a  strange  memento 
of  the  battle,  the  skeletons  of  a  horse  and  his  gray- 
coated  rider  were  found,  only  the  other  day,  lying 
where  they  fell,  the  missile  passing  through  the  thighs 
of  the  trooper  and  the  body  of  the  horse,  and  there 


234  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

they  lay  together,  the  rider,  the  ridden,  and  the  solid 
shot.  Our  dead  boys  were  decently  buried,  and  head 
boards  bearing  the  names  and  regiments  of  the  sleepers 
made  check-work  of  the  field  ;  but  already  many  of 
these  are  gone,  and  of  them  who  sleep  under  the  little 
ridges  all  traces  are  effaced  forever. 

The  Federal  fortifications  cover  three  hundred  acres, 
and  require  a  garrison  of  fifteen  thousand  men.  Rifle- 
pits,  angles  and  willow  bastions  make  a  grand  geomet 
rical  diagram  of  the  whole  landscape,  breaking  it  up 
most  strangely,  to  a  man  who  had  seen  nothing  more 
formidable  than  an  Osage-orange  hedge  planted  to  stay 
the  progress  of  errant  flock  and  herd. 

How  wildly  upon  this  spot  the  old  year  '62  closed  in ; 
how  red  and  angry  was  the  glare  that  lighted  on  the 
new !  Standing  here  to-day  I  keep  forgetting  that  I 
look  upon  the  scene  of  deeds  that  shall  outlast  the 
house  of  the  grave-maker.  Amid  the  homely  sounds 
of  common  life,  with  only  the  snarl  of  an  idle  drum  in 
the  distance,  I  cannot  clearly  trace  the  lines  of  fire 
drawn  here  and  yonder  in  the  terrible  geometry  of 
battle.  In  this  lazy  air  I  can  hardly  think  how  right- 
over  my  head  the  curtains  of  the  thunder  shook  to  the 
top  of  heaven.  The  ranks  of  corn  may  wave  along 
these  acres,  and  the  monumental  shaft  sink  wearily 
away  into  the  Italic  of  time,  but  these  sleepers  here 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  235 

shall  spring  to  resurrection  in  song  and  story,  and  Stone 
River  be  stereotyped  among  the  battle-fields  of  Liberty. 

How  swiftly  the  plowshare  follows  the  sword,  no  man 
can  quite  appreciate  who  has  not  seen  from  a  single 
stand-point,  the  sweep  of  the  one  and  the  sober  going 
of  the  other.  Think  of  it !  Where,  last  November,  I 
saw  Hooker  move  up  to  the  battle  in  the  clouds,  his 
stout  and  steady  legions  swinging  round  the  mountain 
disc,  six  plows  are  scarring  a  spot,  the  colters  cutting 
the  willing  earth,  these  April  days,  for  a  potato-field  ! 
Horses  that  thundered  bravely  on  in  a  charge  of  cav 
alry,  are  going  soberly  to  and  fro  along  the  glistening 
furrows.  Where,  last  November  the  crest  of  Lookout 
all  day  long  gave  growls  of  thunder,  now  stands  the 
cabin  of  a  photographer,  and  hundreds  of  groups  has 
he  taken  at  long  range,  standing  upon  its  brink.  Thus 
closely  does  trade  tread  upon  the  heels  of  war. 

"How  is  business?"  I  asked  a  dealer  in  clothing,  a 
day  or  two  ago.  "  Dull,"  was  the  reply.  "  But,"  I 
returned,  '•  it  will  be  better  after  a  payment."  "  Better 
after  a  battle"  was  the  prompt  and  business-like  reply. 
It  gave  me  something  to  think  of. 

All  these  regions  will  turn  into  a  vineyard  at  the 
least  provocation,  and  I  do  not  see  why  the  sweeps  of 
the  Tennessee  may  not  be  the  Rhine  of  the  South. 
Grapes,  large  and  luscious,  drape  the  little  islands,  climb 


236  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

everything  that  will  let  them,  and,  the  woods  are  purple 
with  muscadines.  Figs  grow  and  ripen  in  the  valleys, 
and  here,  if  anywhere  on  the  continent,  the  old  Scrip 
ture  may  be  verified,  and  the  dwellers  of  a  truth  may 
'sit  under  their  own  vine  and  .fig-tree." 

The  mountain  echoes  of  artillery  had  just  died  away 
when  a  lively  cricket  of  a  newspaper  appeared  in  Chat 
tanooga,  and  with  the  daily  came  the  newsboy — the 
same  boy  I  saw  curled  up  in  a  box  in  Nassau  street, 
New  York  ;  the  same  boy  that  cries  the  "  E  nyn  Yurn'l '' 
on  Dearborn  street,  Chicago ;  the  same  shrewd,  sharp, 
old-before-his-time  urchin  that  jumps  into  the  clothes 
of  his  ancestors,  and  runs  out  into  the  world  with  the 
shell  upon  his  back,  like  a  young  quail.  If  anything, 
he  is  smaller  here,  but  then  he  has  slipped  into  a  pair 
of  cavalry  pantaloons  when  the  owner  was  out,  and  he 
is  overwhelmed  in  the  coat  of  a  rebel  who  is  done  with 
it,  and  altogether,  resembles  a  shagbark  walnut — more 
cover  than  kernel. 

DANGER  AND  DESOLA  TION. 

I  saw  a  strange-looking  party  the  other  day,  one 
hundred  and  fifty  strong,  attired  in  butternut  and  shirt 
sleeves,  mounted  upon  horses  of  every  tint  and  action, 
from  blue  to  calico,  and  from  a  limp  to  a  lope. 


IN    CAMP    AND     FIELD,  237 

Rozinante  was  there  and  the  steed  of  Dr,  Syntax,  anc 
so,  for  that  matter,  were  Sancho  Panza  and  "  the 
knight  of  the  sorrowful  countenance."  Equipped  with 
fowling-pieces,  squirrel-guns,  bell-mouthed  muskets  that 
would  scatter  like  a  flock  of  sheep,  rifles,  huge  target 
guns  weighing  thirty  pounds  that  ought  to  go  on 
wheels,  fancy  little  pieces,  flint-lock,  percussion-lock,  no 
lock,  and  the  old  Queen's  arm,  they  looked  as  if  they 
had  ridden  right  out  of  a  dead  and  gone  age  bravely 
down  into  our  own.  They  proved  to  be  men  from 
Middle  Tennessee,  who  had  traveled,  like  the  Nomades, 
a  long  journey  by  night,  to  fall  in  to  the  Federal  line. 

Writing  of  arms,  have  you  happened  to  think  what 
a  world  of  ingenuity  has  been  expended  upon  imple 
ments  of  death  ?  Take  the  muskets,  Springfields,  Aus- 
trians,  big  Belgians,  old  United  States;  and  what  tribes 
of  carbines — Sharpe's,  Merrill's,  Burnside's,  Gallagher's, 
Joslyn's.  Of  the  whole  hundred  and  ten  varieties  of 
small-arms,  the  Springfield  rifled  musket  is  the  most 
valued  and  trusty.  Every  soldier  that  carries  one  gives 
it  gender  and  makes  a  u  Brown  Bess  '  of  her  at  once. 

The  Tennesseeans  who  have  thus  taken  arms  are 
terrible.  Shot  at  in  their  own  doors,  waylaid  in  their 
own  fields,  their  fair  land  made  desolate  around  them, 
their  families  driven  homeless,  shelterless  from  the  old 
roof-tree,  do  you  wonder  they  never  take  a  prisoner? 


238  PICTURES     OF    LIFE 

That  rebels  are  found  hanging  here  and  there  from 
low-limbed  oaks  that  never  bore  such  fruit  before? 
That  such  a  colloquy  as  this  should  have  occurred  at 
Murfreesboro,  when  the  enemy's  cavalry  flashed  through 
it  like  a  shuttle  ? 

Tennessee  Cavalryman  to  General  Ward:  "  We  just 
took  four  prisoners,  a  couple  of  miles  out  of  town,  Gen 
eral,  but  could  gain  no  information." 

General :     4<  Well,  where  are  they  ?  " 

Cavalryman :  "  We  don't  know  precisely.  The 
last  we  saw  of  them  they  were  going  away  into  the 
woods  with  some  of  the  boys." 

The  General  made  no  comment,  but  in  less  than 
sixty  minutes  a  party  of  Federal  soldiers  came  into 
town,  stating  that  they  had  just  seen  four  "rebs" 
hanging  from  one  tree. 

You  see,  now  and  then  in  Tennessee,  a  quaint  old 
house  among  the  mountains,  with  the  dormer  windows, 
and  the  little  two-seated  porch,  and  the  roofs  slipping 
off  almost  down  to  the  ground  behind,  like  a  school 
girl's  sun-bonnet ;  the  oven  squatted  out  of  doors  like 
a  great  mud-turtle,  and  the  "  slice  "  leaning  against  it ; 
the  well-sweep  accenting  the  low,  mossy  eaves ;  the 
old-time  flowers  growing  in  the  garden  ;  the  sun-flower 
making  ready  to  rise ;  the  hollyhock  building  its  small 
orchestra  wherein  the  little  negroes  used  to  bag  many  a 


IN    CAMP    AND     FIELD.  239 

bee  to  hear  "  its  small  and  mellow  horn  ;"  earth  and 
sky  drawn  very  near  together  all  around,  with  the  spurs 
of  the  Cumberland  grooved  into  the  horizon ;  the  clean 
world  it  all  looked,  and  so  home-like  and  sheltered 
those  valleys,  that  it  would  have  seemed  to  me  next 
safest  to  being  literally  held  in  the  hollow  of  GOD'S 
hand  to  dwell  in  them,  had  I  not  known  that  death 
lurked  in  every  cedar. 

Everything  grows  skittish  in  such  regions  except  the 
mule.  He  would  bray  at  the  gates  of — Dante,  if  a 
ration  of  corn  could  be  made  of  it.  I  wonder  what 
Charles  Lamb — "  the  gentle  Elia  " — would  have  thought 
of  it,  if  just  entering  a  car  at  Murfreesboro,  bound 
down,  he  should  happen  to  see  the  side  of  the  coach 
freshly  peppered  with  shot ;  and  if,  being  fairly  seated, 
he  should  spy  a  suggestive  hole  in  the  oak  panel  just 
above  his  head,  and  on  probing  it  should  find  a  lazy 
minie-ball  lying  perdu  at  the  bottom.  What  with  the 
enemy's  devilish  delicacy  in  the  shape  of  torpedoes 
which,  placed  beneath  the  rail,  explode  with  the 
slightest  pressure,  and  make  kindling  wood  of  things 
in  a  twinkling,  and  the  swoops  of  hostile  cavalry  upon 
the  road,  running  a  train  is  nervous  work,  and  our 
engineer  maybe  pardoned  for  whistling  "down  brakes" 
yesterday  with  unusual  emphasis.  Something  suspi 
cious  lay  upon  the  track,  and  a  skirmisher  was  sent 


240  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

forward  to  reconnoiter.  A  cautious  examination  dis 
closed  the  dilapidated  leg  of  a  cavalry  boot,  a  harmless 
waif  from  some  passing  train ;  and  with  unusual 
pressure  to  the  square  inch  our  postillion  succeeded  in 
bringing  his  shy  and  skittish  engine  down  to  her  work 
again.  All  the  eyes  of  all  the  engineers  in  this  region 
are  in  the  fronts  of  their  heads. 

The  Chattanooga,  the  very  Jordan  of  railroads,  rag 
ged  to  a  degree,  and  as  full  of  perils  as  a  brisk  skirmish, 
has  done  noble  service,  and  cast  aside  its  tattered  rails 
as  they  may,  it  will  have  "the  right  of  way"  and  an 
enduring  Station  on  the  historic  page.  The  wrecks  of 
seven  engines  and  one  hundred  and  forty  cars  strow  the 
road  between  Nashville  and  Bridgeport — that  capital 
place  for  liars  to  tell  the  truth  in.  Verily  they  cannot 
lie  if  they  try.  From  Bridgeport  to  Chattanooga  it  is 
twenty-seven  miles,  fifty-five  miles,  seventy  miles.  They 
consume  one  day,  three  days,  ten  days,  and  it  is  all 
true.  Fancy  a  Potomac  General  ordering  thirty  break 
fasts  and  rooms  for  his  suite  at  Stevenson  by  light 
ning! — Stevenson  with  its  "  Alabama  House,"  a  good 
piece  of  property  to  begin  a  new  Tophet  with,  should 
the  old  one  be  burned  out.  Think  of  his  coveting  a 
dinner  at  Bell  Buckle,  to  which  place  the  conductor 
took  fare  of  a  passenger  who  profanely  declared  he  was 
bound  for  "the  other  place."  "You'll  get  off  at  Bell 


IN    CAMP    AND     FIELD.  24! 

Buckle  then — it  s  the  nearest  station  on  this  road,"  said 
the  conductor,  and  so  landed  him  to  make  the  rest  of 
his  journey  as  he  could.  Eight  miles  an  hour  is  the 
passenger  rate  of  running,  and  I  have  as  yet  met 
nobody  who  talked  of  mud-turtles,  for  in  that  eight 
miles  you  get  motion  enough  for  eighty.  Worn  out 
before  the  enemy  had  done  with  it,  they  had  spiked 
plank  upon  the  ties,  making  a  broad  road  whereon  their 
army  wagons  were  driven,  and  the  first  time  I  passed 
over  it,  the  thick  double  rows  of  beans  and  corn — raw 
succotash — growing  along  the  rails  were  as  good  as  a 
bill  of  lading  as  to  the  freight  they  carried. 

Many  of  the  bands  that  attack  the  trains  in  Tennes 
see  are  made  up  of  desperate  and  abandoned  citizens, 
whose  predatory  propensities  are  indulged  under  the 
color  of  war;  for,  they  do  not  belong  to  the  army 
at  all. 

General  Hooker  issued  a  two-edged  sword  of  an 
order  which  illustrates  the  fact  that  a  steel  blade  may 
be  made  of  no  tougher  material  than  honest  English. 
It  holds  residents  within  twenty  miles  upon  each  side 
of  the  Railroad,  responsible  for  any  damage  done  by 
guerrillas,  upon  the  ground  that  the  latter  can  only 
approach  the  line  with  the  connivance  or  knowledge 
of  such  residents,  and  announcing  further  that  the 
homes  will  be  destroyed  and  the  property  confiscated 


242  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

of  all  who  shall  either  by  actual  deed  or  by  silence 
facilitate  the  approach  of  the  raiders.  The  order  cuts 
both  ways,  for  it  declares  that  under  no  circumstances 
will  the  surprise,  abandonment  or  surrender  of  any 
Federal  force,  work  or  bridge  along  the  line  be 
pardoned. 

Waiting  at  a  desolate  station  in  the  gray  of  the 
morning,  a  ghostly  mist  hiding  the  river  lowlands,  and 
nothing  but  a  ruin  in  sight,  I  saw  two  blots  on  the 
thick  air,  that  took  shape  in  a  moment  and  loomed  out 
of  the  fog  a  mounted  picket  leading  a  riderless  horse. 
The  saddle  was  stained  with  something  heavier  than 
dew,  for  it  had  just  been  emptied  by  a  shot  from  an 
unseen  hand,  and  the  picket's  comrade  had  fallen  dead 
in  the  rank  weeds.  Such  incidents  were  frequent,  but 
a  scene  more  eloquent  of  utter  loneliness  can  hardly  be 
imagined.  It  impressed  me  much  as  did  another  and 
widely  different  picture.  Riding  through  a  region 
emptied  like  that  hapless  rider's  saddle  of  all  life — the 
houses  tumbling  down  in  their  desolateness,  and  the 
breathless  chimneys  standing  like  dumb  monuments  to 
dead  households,  the  silence  dotted  now  and  then  by  a 
shot  in  the  distance,  ticking,  perhaps,  some  patrolman's 
last  minute,  we  halted  at  the  foot  of  a  great  oak. 
Glancing  up  the  trunk,  there  were  slips  nailed  along, 
the  rounds  of  a  rude  ladder  leading  to  a  little  platform 


IN    CAMP    AND     FIELD.  243 

like  a  hawk's  nest  among  the  foliage  at  the  top.  A 
single  telegraph  wire  was  trailed  up  amid  the  leaves 
like  the  floating  thread  of  that  brave  aeronaut,  the  field 
spider.  It  was  a  deserted  station  where  our  signal 
corps  had  made  observations  at  the  distance  of  fifteen 
miles.  The  corps  had  moved  on,  the  storm  had  swept 
by,  but  the  look-out  remained. 


UNDER   WHICH  KING? 

I  had  read  from  boyhood  the  passage  where  the 
orator  talks  so  finely  of  the  drifts  of  New  England  and 
"  the  snows  of  the  cotton  field  ;  "  I  had  seen  cotton 
batting;  heard  of  cotton  breastworks  at  New  Orleans 
and — elsewhere ,  met  cotton  kings  and  attended  a  cot 
ton  court,  but  a  cotton  field  was  a  thing  in  cotton  I  had 
yet  to  see.  Beginning  with  a  boy's  first  boots,  almost 
all  first  things  are  memorable.  Riding  along  one 
pleasant  day,  I  came  upon  a  row  of  negroes,  "  a  sitting 
on  a  rail."  Of  different  heights,  their  inky  heads 
looked  like  the  ups  and  downs  of  a  queer  stave  of 
music,  and  their  crooked  bodies  finished  out  the  notes 
with  grotesque  stems.  This  bit  of  a  tune  would  have 
been  nowise  remarkable,  had  not  every  note  of  it  been 
spotted  with  white.  They  were  cotton-pickers,  and 


244  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

looked  as  if  they  had  been  out  in  a  storm  of  it.  Over 
the  fence  beyond  I  beheld  the  cotton  field.  It  was  late 
in  the  season  and  the  green  had  faded  out ;  the  earth 
showed  dark  beneath,  and  the  cotton  thickly  sprinkled 
the  landscape.  It  was  as  if  the  first  great  flakes  of 
a  snow-fall  should  be  halted  a  foot  or  so  from  the 
ground,  and  should  hang  obedient  there.  And  so  I 
looked  my  first  at  the  field  whence  they  had  picked  the 
fabric  worn  by  "  the  girl  with  the  blue  dress  on,"  and 
gathered  the  folds  of  the  star-lit  flag. 

I  was  looking  upon  a  deposed  monarch  without 
thinking  of  it ;  for  cotton  is  no  longer  king. 

I  saw  four  hundred  of  the  mothers  of  Ethiopia — and 
about  every  one  of  them  a  nursing  mother — "  doing  " 
the  woolens  of  the  army  in  the  morning  shadow  of  the 
mountain,  the  dingy  crowd  freckled  a  little  with  yellow 
girls,  and  nothing  sweet  about  any  of  them  but  the 
laugh  of  the  women.  It  almost  startles  you  to  hear 
light,  musical  laughter  from  a  pair  of  lips  that  might 
have  exuded  from  the  india-rubber  tree.  I  have  heard 
the  originals  of  some  of  the  songs  that  jumped  "  Jim 
Crow  "  into  much  smutty  immortality  and  clean  money, 
but  I  heard  them  from  the  poor,  ragged  performers 
with  a  feeling  of  pain  rather  than  amusement.  "  Way 
down  in  Alabama  "  had  lost  its  power  to  charm,  and  so 
had  the  rollicking  Sambos  and  die-away  Dinahs  of  old 


IN    CAMP    AND     FIELD.  245 

times.  The  nearer  you  get  to  his  Guinea  and  Gold 
Coast  fathers  the  more  elastic  the  negro  grows.  He 
seems  india-rubber  all  the  way  through.  He  resists  by 
yielding,  and  the  rebound  is  as  light  and  airy  as  a  bird. 
He  brushes  off  grief  as  if  it  were  a  sprinkle  of  rain. 
With  him  "  sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof," 
and  he  lets  the  strife  and  fever  of  his  life  go  down  with 
the  sun. 

Some  hunter  of  the  White  Nile  has  said,  "  When  the 
sun  sets  all  Africa  dances."  In  Washington  when  Sun 
day  comes  all  Africa  dashes  if  it  does  not  dance.  It  is 
rampant  and  saltant.  It  is  easy  to  see  on  a  sunny 
Sabbath  what  has  become  of  the  old  mantle  of  the 
aristocracy  They  pepper  the  city  as  from  a  dredge- 
box,  and  sober  it  into  a  sort  of  mitigated  mourning. 
During  the  capitals  troubled  days  in  July,  '64, 
everybody  was  toned  up  a  little  but  the  shady  side  of 
humanity  He,  waspish  at  the  waist  and  \vith  that 
voluminous  Allegheny-and-Monongahela  flow  of  trous 
ers  that  suggests  the  idea  of  something  pulled  up  by 
the  roots  before  it  has  done  growing,  sports  his  best, 
swings  his  cane  and  cocks  his  hat  over  his  north-east 
eyebrow  and  gives  the  old  plantation  laugh.  She  is 
out,  beflounced,  belaced  and  beatified,  and  so  in  pairs, 
as  Noah's  passengers  entered  the  ark,  they  go,  light  of 
heart  and  of  head,  up  and  down  the  Avenue.  Every 


246  PICTURES     OF    LIFE 

shade  of  the  bleaching  process  is  visible  everywhere. 
Blue  eyes,  straight  hair,  and  lips  modeled  from  Apollo's 
bow  here  ;  Dinahs  that  might  be  Dianas  there. 

Ebony  is  not  king. 

Here  at  the  Front  nothing  is  exempt  from  the 
fragrance  of  pig-tail,  cavendish,  fine-cut  and  the  wilted 
leaf.  Everything  smokes  on  the  trains,  from  engine  to 
wheel-axle.  Negroes  will  sing,  dance  or  cry  for 
tobacco.  Give  it  to  them  and  their  eyes  round  out  to 
saucers  of  delight,  and  the  siftings  of  a  soldier's  pocket 
are  eagerly  scraped  up  by  the  natives.  Picture  a  lank, 
tallowish  female  of  the  human  species,  guiltless  of 
reading,  writing,  soap,  water  and  religion,  who  says 
"  we'uns  "  and  "  you'uns/*  in  a  dress  hanging  limp,  with 
the  look  and  grace  of  a  dish-cloth  on  a  fork,  and  resem 
bling  in  tint  the  inky  map  of  the  benighted  portions  of 
the  globe,  a  piece  of  tobacco  in  her  mouth  and  two 
batches  of  children  at  her  heels,  and  you  have  the 
counterfeit  presentment  of  a  certain  type  of  white  folks, 
fairly  pushed  over  the  edge  of  decent  existence,  that 
grow  among  these  mountains.  She  indulges,  when  she 
can,  in  the  luxury  called  u  dipping.''  Take  a  little 
stem  of  althea,  chew  it  into  a  bit  of  a  broom  at  one 
end,  dip  it  in  snuff,  sweep  your  mouth  out  with  it,  and 
leave  the  handle  sticking  out  of  one  corner,  like  a 
broom  in  a  mop-pail,  and  remember  all  the  while  that 


IX     CAMP    AND    P^IELD.  247 

it  is  a  woman's  mouth,  and  you  have  as  much  of  the 
fashion  as  I  mean  to  describe. 

But  the  supremacy  of  the  weed  of  which  we  have  a 
king's  word  for  saying  "  it  was  the  Devil  sowed  the 
seed,"  is  not  confined  to  Front  or  race.  The  blue-coat 
will  pay  a  half  dollar  for  an  ounce  of  it  as  easily  as  he 
winks  at  the  flash  of  a  rifle,  and  many  a  dull,  rainy 
night  is  beguiled  with  the  laurel-wood  pipe  around  the 
camp-fire  Only  give  him  light  enough  to  see  the 
smoke  of  the  sacrifice,  and  his  troubles  roll  up  from  the 
glowing  bowl,  melt  silently  into  the  night  and  vanish 
away. 

Amid  the  pagodaish  adornings  of  the  new  Represen 
tative  Hall,  a  single  curious  relic  of  the  old  time  and 
the  everlasting  love  remains:  a  little  russet  box,  that 
you  might  put  in  your  pocket,  stands  at  each  end  of 
the  marble  desk  of  the  Clerk,  and  its  use  puzzles  you 
for  a  while.  But  pretty  soon  an  honorable  member — 
that  gray  father  yonder — passing  by,  inserts  a  thumb 
and  finger  in  one  of  them,  and  abstracts  a  pinch  of 
something  that  explodes  the  secret  in  a  sneeze.  They 
are,  of  a  truth,  snuff-boxes,  and  restore,  like  the  powder 
of  a  rare  magician,  the  old  dead  fashion  and  them  that 
followed  it ;  you  look  again  into  the  round,  black 
beetle  of  a  box  and  see  the  Vanilla  bean  half  smoth 
ered  in  titillating  "  Scotch ;  "  you  hear  the  two  little 


248  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

knocks  upon  the  rim  as  the  lid  is  deftly  lifted  off  and 
the  box  extended  to  you  with  a  winning  grace  that 
even  testy  James  of  the  "  counter  blast "  would  not 
repulse ;  the  dear  old  grandmothers  of  the  elder  Anne, 
they  of  the  spotless  cap  and  snowy  hair,  are  plain 
before  you.  '•  Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart,  for  they 
shall  see  GOD ; "  the  beatitude  was  prophetic ;  they 
have  died  and  fulfilled  it ! 

In  the  glorious  days  that  are  no  more,  while  the 
eloquent  air  yet  trembled  and  grew  grand  with  those 
tones  of  his,  as  if  descending  angels  were  lighting  in 
the  Hall,  the  gallant  "  Harry  of  the  West"  would  near 
the  desk,  they  say,  and  with  the  hand  but  just  now 
beckoning  to  obedient  Fame,  would  take  a  pinch  of 
"Maccaboy!"  The  smile  with  which  I  first  saw  the 
brace  of  snuff-boxes  in  such  a  presence,  has  faded  out 
at  last,  for  now  they  seem  to  me  two  little  handfuls 
of  dust  from  the  perished  years  of  many  a  long  gone 
Congress.  And  so  Sambo  and  Senator  touch  ground 
together.  The  great  capitals  that  cry  out  at  you  from 
wall  and  column  of  the  National  Capitol,  short  and 
sharp  as  the  bark  of  a  Scotch  terrier,  "  Don't  deface  the 
building!  Don't  spit  on  the  floors !"  ought  to  be  an 
insult  to  the  visitor,  but  they  are  not. 

Man  is  a  ruminant  and  tobacco  is  king. 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  249 


FLOWERS,  POETRY  AND  HEROES. 

When  on  my  way  down  to  the  Front  I  caught  my 
first  glimpse  of  "  the  beautiful  river,'*  with  its  wooded 
shores  and  its  graceful  sweeps,  and  Louisville  with  sur 
roundings  that  nature  and  art  have  conspired  to  beau 
tify  ;  saw  for  the  first  time  a  country  under  martial  law, 
and  bayonets  sprouting  on  every  corner,  you  will  wonder 
that  I  thought  less  of  the  gleam  of  swords  than  of  the 
flash  of  wit ;  more  of  the  rhythmic  march  of  poetry  than 
of  the  clanking  tramp  of  soldiers.  I  wras  thinking  of  a 
veteran  editor  of  Kentucky.  There  is  no  city  in  the 
land  that  owes  so  much,  perhaps,  to  a  newspaper  for 
rendering  its  name  a  sort  of  Western  classic,  and  mak 
ing  it  known  far  beyond  all  knowledge  of  its  fashion, 
wealth  and  commercial  importance,  as  Louisville.  I 
need  not  add  that  the  paper  is  the  "  Journal,"  and  the 
editor,  George  D.  Prentice.  All  through  these  many 
years,  "  Louisville"  was  a  word  to  conjure  with.  Say 
it,  and  you  thought  of  flashes  of  wit  and  thrusts  of 
satire,  of  poetry  the  most  melodious  and  heartful ;  of 
gallant  dashes  and  sturdy  battle,  in  the  old  time,  for 
"  Harry  of  the  West." 


250  PICTURES    OF     LIFE 

And  so,  as  speedily  as  I  could,  I  found  him  in  his 
sanctum.  An  old  man  with  a  round  head  and  frosty 
hair,  and  an  eye  black,  keen,  sagacious,  sparkling,  sat 
there  without  coat  or  cravat,  feet  half-shod  in  slippers, 
dictating  to  an  amanuensis.  When  my  name  was  an 
nounced,  though  that  of  a  stranger,  he  met  me  more 
than  half  way,  extended  both  his  hands,  his  face  bright 
ened  with  welcome,  and  he  made  me  at  home  in  a 
minute.  Not  a  school  girl's  poet  to  look  at — not  slim 
and  pale  as  a  candle,  but  square-built,  thick-set  and 
compact,  carrying  his  sixty  years  with  a  brisk  and  elas 
tic  step.  The  fire  of  the  old  days  was  not  quite  out,  it 
only  smouldered,  and  he  talked  of  the  brighter  time 
long  gone  and  the  better  time  to  come,  but  I  could  see, 
and  there  was  a  pain  in  my  heart  the  while,  that  the 
dew  was  scorched  off  the  flower  of  life,  and  the  flower 
lay  withered  and  worthless  in  his  hand. 

I  remembered  how  his  Journal  used  to  open  brightly 
upon  me  like  the  countenance  of  a  familiar  friend ;  how 
he  laid  his  hand  on  the  shoulders  of  young  aspirants  for 
literary  fame  like  an  elder  brother,  and  bade  them  God 
speed  ;  how  he  kindled  the  Western  sky  with  a  constel 
lation  of  poets,  leading  them  off  with  his  gifted  "Amelia 
of  the  West."  Generous,  impulsive,  social,  rich  in  the 
fearful  gift  of  genius,  he  strowed  flowers  and  flashed 
swords  through  the  pages  of  the  daily  press  and  never 


IN     CAMP    AND    FIELD.  251 

halted  to  gather  them  up.  Time  robbed  him,  year  by 
year,  of  some  sweet  grace  of  youth ;  and  there  came  a 
day  when  the  Muse  stood  silent  and  pensive  on  his 
threshold.  The  friends  that  had  cheered  him  on  fell 
away  from  him ;  ^the  men  that  had  battled  with  him 
and  loved  him  wearied  and  slept ;  the  women  whose 
bright  eyes  brightened  at  his  wit  and  softened  with  his 
song,  had  gone  away  to  be  seen  no  more.  And  so  the 
old  man  died,  and  so  in  his  own  words — 

"  Within  the  deep, 

Still  chambers  of  the  heart,  a  specter  dim, 
Whose  tones  are  like  the  wizard  voice  of  Time, 
Heard  from  the  tomb  of  ages,  points  its  cold 
And  solemn  finger  to  the  beautiful 
And  holy  visions  that  have  passed  away, 
And  left  no  shadow  of  their  loveliness 
On  the  dead  waste  of  life.     That  specter  lifts 
The  coffin-lid  of  Hope,  and  Joy,  and  Love, 
And  bending  mournfully  above  the  pale, 
Sweet  forms,  that  slumber  there,  scatters  dead  flowers 
O'er  what  has  passed  to  nothingness. 

Remorseless  Time  . 

Fierce  spirit  of  the  glass  and  scythe  ! — what  power 
Can  stay  him  in  his  silent  course,  or  melt 
His  iron  heart  to  pity  ?     On,  still  on 
He  presses,  and  forever." 


252  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

I  had  an  old  song  brightened  up  for  me,  one  day — a 
doleful  tale  of  a  bride  who  played  "  hide-and-seek," 
between  one  generation  and  another,  on  a  Christmas 
day,  and  descended  to  people  who  should  have  been 
her  grand-children,  in  "  an  old  oak  chest."  I  saw 
the  burden  of  that  song  in  Alabama  and  Tennessee, 
hanging  in  round  green  clusters  upon  oaks  impover 
ished  of  any  leaves  of  their  own.  The  effect  of  those 
globes  of  verdure  was  singular  enough  to  arrest  my 
attention  even  in  the  midst  of  graver  things  for 
thought,  and  to  provoke  an  inquiry,  and  the  answer 
was  the  burden  of  that  identical  song : 

"  Oh,  the  Mistletoe  Bough  ! " 

In  vividness  and  variety,  the  autumnal  colorings  of 
Southern  woods  far  surpass  our  own.  It  may  be  that 
the  keen  shafts  of  green  thrust  up  here  and  there  serve 
to  set  off  "  the  coat  of  many  colors."  You  can  see 
cones  of  hills  that  burn  like  strange  and  wonderful 
gems,  and  would  put  out  the  light  in  Sindbad's  Valley 
of  Diamonds ;  great  trees  whose  entire  foliage  resem 
bles  a  single  crimson  or  golden  flower,  so  evenly  and 
wonderfully  are  the  tints  laid  on,  and  all  you  can  think 
of,  as  you  look,  is  not  a  trunk  of  a  tree  bearing  its 
crown  of  painted  leaves,  but  a  stem  lightly  lifting  its 
one  majestic  blossom  up  before  the  Lord,  I  saw  such 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  253 

trees  and  woods  touched  and  set  on  fire  with  the 
sinking  sun,  last  night.  I  had  read,  in  an  old  volume, 
of  the  Burning  Bush,  but  I  never  saw  it  until  then. 
How  they  did  kindle  and  flash  up,  as  Day  walked 
along  the  tops  of  the  forest !  I  believe  that  if  ever  I 
have  to  take  up  the  blind  man's  "  but  not  to  me  returns 
day  nor  the  sweet  approach  of  even  or  morn,"  that 
scene  will  come  back  again  and  again — one  of  the 
brightest  and  loveliest  pictures  in  memory.  I  pray  all 
practical  men  and  women  to  pardon  me  for  strewing 
this  paragraph  very  broadly  with  such  trifles  as  leaves 
and  flowers.  But  I  cannot  help  thinking,  with  another, 
tha<  the  Lord  loves  to  look  at  them  Himself.  Would 
anybody  have  liked  it  better,  do  you  think,  had  I  told 
him  that  I  saw  oak  leaves,  as  early  as  September,  more 
richly  colored  than  any  I  saw  last  night  ? — costlier  far 
than  the  dye  of  Tyre  ? 

And  speaking  of  flowers,  I  have  seen  soldiers  go 
into  battle  with  a  rose  or  a  geranium  leaf  carefully 
pinned  upon  the  breast.  Does  anybody  think  the  love 
of  a  posy  made  against  their  manhood — that  they  were 
any  less  the  hero?  It  was  the  touch  of  the  same 
poetic  feeling  that,  toned  up  and  glorified,  makes  epics 
—that  made  Sergeant  Williams,  the  color-bearer  of 
Company  D,  5ist  Illinois,  when  the  flag  was  shot  clean 
away  at  Chicamauga,  grasp  the  standard  and  cry  out, 


254  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

"  the  staff  is  left  yet,  boys — it's  enough  to  fight  by !  " 
A  soldier  of  the  7Qth  Illinois  was  struck  by  the  frag 
ment  of  a  shell  upon  the  hip,  and  the  next  minute  a 
musket-ball  penetrated  a  case  containing  the  portraits 
of  his  wife  and  two  children,  and  lay  there  as  harm 
lessly  amid  that  little  family  of  shadows  as  a  trinket 
in  a  woman's  bosom. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  he,  "  that  for  all  that  lump  of 
lead  left  the  picture  not  worth  a  Continental  I  wouldn't 
swap  it  for  a  farm  ?  It  isn't  so  much,  you  see,  that  my 
life  was  saved  by  anything  as  that  it  was  saved  by  such 
a  thing — my  wife  and  babies,  and  they  a  thousand 
miles  off  all  the  while !  "  Was  there  not  a  vein  in  that 
man's  soul  of  the  sort  of  stuff  that  makes  lyrics  ? 

Ah,  many  a  rude  and  sturdy  trooper  in  the  old  wars 
of  York  and  Lancaster  fought  as  much  for  an  emblem, 
for  the  white  rose  or  the  red,  as  if  it  had  been  a  love- 
gift  from  the  woman  of  his  heart. 

Going  up  Mission  Ridge,  Colonel  Wiley,  of  the  41  st 
Ohio,  fell  terribly  wounded  at  the  first  line  of  nfle-pits, 
and  General  Hazen  rode  up,  with  the  words,  "  I  hope 
you  are  not  badly  wounded."  "  Do  you  think  we'll 
make  it?"  asked  the  Colonel.  "I  do,"  was  the  reply. 
"That's  enough,"  said  the  gallant  officer;  "I  can  stand 
this ! " — and  there  he  lay  bleeding  and  content,  and 
the  tide  of  battle  went  on.  What,  but  a  grand  ideal 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  255 

inspired  that  man  and  summoned  back  his  ebbing  soul  ? 
As  he  lay  there  with  closed  eyes  he  saw  the  41  st  roll 
over  the  height  like  a  blue  wave,  ''distinct  like  a 
billow"  in  that  "one  like  the  sea." 

At  Shiloh  a  white  dove,  bewildered  by  the  thunder, 

• 

flew  in  and  out  amid  the  clouds  of  the  battle,  and  at 
last  fluttered  panting  down  upon  the  wheel  of  a  gun. 
It  was  a  strange  place  for  the  emblem  of  purity  and 
peace ;  it  belonged  to  the  white  flag  and  not  to  the  red. 
An  artilleryman  captured  it  in  his  grimy  hands,  caressed 
it  a  moment,  freed  it,  and  in  an  instant  it  was  lost  in 
the  storm.  Had  that  caressing  touch  been  translated 
into  English  speech  can  you  doubt  it  would  have  been 
a  word  of  love  and  memory  melodious  as  a  little  song  ? 
Had  that  bird  flown  with  the  captor's  thought,  can  you 
doubt  it  would  have  fluttered  at  last  at  a  window  of 
the  gunner's  far-off  home  ? 

The  story  of  the  war  contains  abundant  proof  that 
the  negro  may  possess  a  yet  nobler  quality  than  mere 
animal  courage;  that  he  can  touch  the  heroic  height 
that  makes  life  grand  and  death  a  poem.  Very  seldom 
indeed,  for  in  any  race  the  sparrows  are  many,  but  the 
eagles  are  few.  Do  you  not  think  the  black  color- 
bearer,  who  planted  the  flag  on  the  enemy's  works,  and 
who,  though  brought  down  by  a  shot,  yet  held  it  flying 
clear  of  the  earth,  and  when  the  recall  was  sounded, 


256  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

crept  away  bleeding  and  faint,  still  bearing  the  flag 
aloft,  and  when  he  had  brought  it  off  in  safety,  sinking- 
down  with  the  exulting  words,  "  I  never  let  it  touch  the 
ground  !  "•  —  do  you  not  think  that  man  had  at  least  one 
foot  on  the  pedestal  where  stands  the  white  Apollo  of 
the  superior  race  ? 


A  SOLDIER'S  "  TILLr 

Is  the  reader  old-fashioned  enough  to  know  what  a 
"till"  is?  That  bit  of  a  chest  in  one  corner  of  the 
bureau  where  they  used  to  deposit  the  little  trinkets  of 
memory — the  odds  and  ends  of  times  past ;  fragments 
of  Susan's  wedding-dress  and  Jessy's  shroud,  a  lock  of 
the  baby's  hair  that  heard  the  Saviour's  sweet  injunc 
tion,  "suffer  little  children  to  come  unto  me  and  forbid 
them  not " — heard  it  and  went ;  two  or  three  beads 
from  a  broken  string,  two  or  three  letters  in  faded  ink. 
Now,  this  letter  is  a  "  till,"  filled  with  trifles  from  camp 
and  field. 


From  November  24th,  1863,  to  April  24th,  1864,  of 
one  thousand  and  twenty-six  who  had  been  laid  in  the 
Soldiers'  Rest  at  Chattanooga,  one  hundred  and  sixty- 
seven  were  killed  on  the  field  of  battle.  When,  with 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  257 

my  finger  running  down  the  long  lines  of  names,  I  came 
to  the  end  of  the  roll  of  honor,  and  my  thought  rested 
at  one  hundred  sixty-seven,  will  you  believe  that  I 
could  not  credit  the  count,  and  went  over  all  the  pages 
again,  sure  that  I  should  find  a  few  more,  opposite 
whose  names — with  a  running  pen,  and  a  flourish  now 
and  then — the  clerks  had  written  the  three  words, 
"Killed  in  action''  But  the  sixty-eighth  was  not 
there  !  There  it  was  :  one  hundred  and  sixty-seven  fell 
on  the  field  ;  three  hundred  and  seventy-eight  died  from 
wounds  ;  five  hundred  and  forty-five  in  all,  from  bullets  ; 
only  fifty-three  per  cent,  of  the  thousand  and  twenty- 
six.  And  what  of  the  four  hundred  and  eighty-one? 
Hardships,  exposure,  the  wasting  fever,  "the  slings  and 
arrows"  of  rheumatism,  and  all  the  ills  of  the  empty 
box  that  stands  wide  open  in  the  midst  of  camps,  but 
at  whose  bottom  is  "  Hope,  the  charmer,"  still,  even 
as  she  lingered  there  in  the  old  time.  The  battle 
ended,  the  Surgeon's  duty  done,  how  does  the  work  of 
Physician  and  Sanitary  Commission  rise  almost  to  the 
dignity  of  the  army's  salvation  ! 

The  battle  is  the  red  blossom  of  War,  but  the  roots, 
dark  and  bitter,  run  beneath  ten  thousand  tents  and 
cabins,  creep  through  unnumbered  wards  of  hospitals, 
and  feel  their  way  like  the  fingers  of  a  hand  in  all  this 
ground  we  tread  upon,  save  that  great,  solemn  acre, 
rich  in  Soldiers  dead — the  acre  of  the  living  GOD. 


258  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

If  anybody  thinks  that  when  our  men  are  stricken 
upon  the  field  they  fill  the  air  with  cries  and  groans,  till 
it  shivers  with  such  evidence  of  agony,  he  greatly  errs. 
An  arm  is  shattered,  a  leg  carried  away,  a  bullet  pierces 
the  breast,  and  the  soldier  sinks  down  silently  upon  the 
ground,  or  creeps  away,  if  he  can,  without  murmur  or 
complaint ;  falls  as  the  sparrow  falls,  speechlessly,  and 
like  that  sparrow,  I  earnestly  believe,  falls  not  without 
the  Father.  The  dying  horse  gives  out  his  fearful 
utterance  of  almost  human  suffering,  but  the  mangled 
rider  is  dumb.  The  crash  of  musketry,  the  crack  of 
rifles,  the  roar  of  guns,  the  shriek  of  shells,  the  rebel 
whoop,  the  Federal  cheer,  and  that  indescribable  under 
tone  of  grinding,  rumbling,  splintering  sound,  make  up 
the  voices  of  the  battle-field. 


Among  the  curiosities  of  army  life  is  this :  dress 
eighty  thousand  men  pretty  nearly  alike,  and  everybody 
resembles  his  neighbor,  and  nobody  looks  like  himself. 
Take  those  men  and  sprinkle  a  half-section,  as  they  say 
in  the  West,  pretty  thickly  with  them  ;  put  them  under 
the  big  umbrellas  of  the  camps,  chink  a  little  town  full 
of  them  till  every  house  swarms  like  a  hive  in  June,  set 
them  all  in  the  usual  motion  of  army  life  and  then 
begin  to  look  for  your  next  best  friend,  and  I  wish  you 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  259 

joy  of  your  journey ;  you  might  better  be  "Japhet  in 
search  of  his  father."  Perhaps  you  may  remember 
having  passed  a  familiar  friend  who  was  reclining  in  the 
chair  with  his  face  upturned,  as  is  the  fashion  of  those 
who  come  under  the  barber's  hands — passed  without 
recognizing  him.  Of  course  it  was  the  unwonted  posi 
tion  that  gave  him  the  look  of  a  stranger,  the  shadows 
fell  in  new  places,  and  the  effect  was  a  new  impression. 
You  would  be  struck  with  this  in  looking  down  upon 
the  faces  turned  towards  heaven  after  a  battle,  either 
on  the  field  or  in  the  hospital ;  the  light  falls  squarely 
down  :  no  shadows  under  the  brow,  no  shading  beneath 
the  chin,  and  the  whole  face  so  clears  up,  softens  and 
grows  delicate,  that  you  may  be  looking  upon  a  friend 
and  not  know  it.  Death,  I  think,  generally  impairs  the 
beauty  of  women,  but  it  sometimes  makes  homely  men 
wonderfully  handsome. 


Did  you  ever  go  to  a  soldier's  harvest?  A  dozen 
mule  teams  are  geared  up,  an  hundred  men  detailed, 
and,  with  tin  kettles  swung  aloft  from  their  bayonets, 
away  they  go  over  the  mountains,  to  a  broad  corn  forest 
of  an  hundred  and  fifty  acres.  It  is  splendid  corn ; 
the  ears  are  as  long  as  a  Marshal's  baton,  close  set, 
with  kernels  as  clean,  white  and  firm  as  the  teeth  that 


260  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

Richard  was  born  with.  The  arms  are  stacked.  Two 
hours  finish  the  business.  Two  sabres  do  duty  as  corn 
cutters,  and  the  rustling  ranks  succumb.  The  boys  fol 
low  after,  gather  up  the  forage,  load  the  wagons,  and 
away  moves  the  train  en  route  for  camp,  with  the  strang 
est  harvest-songs  and  the  wildest  surroundings.  No 
children's  happy  shouts  follow  the  reapers ;  no  women 
smile  a  welcome  home.  No  harvest  cheer  makes  erlad 

o 

the  closing  day.  It  is  one  of  those  scenes  conjured  up 
by  the  stern  necessities  of  war,  to  which  let  all  men 
pray  we  may  evermore  be  strangers. 


I  got  in  good  company  on  the  Tennessee  one  day, 
being  a  fellow- voyager  with  General  Hooker's  horse 
"  White  Surrey,"  ridden  by  him  in  no  end  of  battles, 
and  I  must  say  I  have  been  in  worse  company  with 
fewer  feet.  Large,  strong,  short  in  the  back,  broad  in 
the  breast ;  not  so  very  clean-limbed,  but  then  all 
muscle  and  endurance,  and  a  noble  bearer  for  his  noble 
burden  He  stood  upon  a  barge  towed  beside  the 
steamer,  and  when  the  engine  gave  a  shrill,  loonish  cry 
above  his  head,  instead  of  bounding  about  and  acting 
like  a  coward,  he  looked  quietly  up  with  those  great, 
wide-open  eyes  of  his ;  and  when  the  steam  rushed  out 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  261 

from  the  escape  pipe  almost  under  his  nose,  with  a 
fierce  hiss  that  made  the  groom  start,  he  just  turned  an 
eye  inquiringly  downward,  his  nostrils  dilating  a  little, 
but  he  never  stirred  out  of  his  tracks.  He  is  a  fearless, 
generous  creature,  worthy  the  respect  even  of  a  Major- 
General.  It  is  no  new  statement,  perhaps,  but  then 
you  have  rich  opportunities  for  verifying  it  in  the 
Army :  horses  do  not  always  "  keep  their  distance " 
from  mankind.  Some  of  them  meet  the  best  of  men 
full  half-way  in.  almost  every  noble  thing  except  a 
living  soul. 


The  poetry  of  many  a  scene  will  slip  out  of  it  if  you 
only  wait  long  enough.  I  wish  you  could  have  been 
with  me  this  lovely  morning,  for  you  would  have  seen  a 
line  of  poetry  written  in  dark  blue  across  the  plain  from 
the  base  of  Lookout,  one  and  a  half  miles.  It  might 
have  been  a  hedge  with  rich,  deep  foliage,  blossomed 
out  at  intervals  with  flowers,  only  it  was  not  there  last 
night.  You  might  think  so  still,  but  the  line  is  growing 
before  your  eyes.  As  you  look,  an  electric  light  flickers 
along  the  blue,  even  as  the  lightning  played  upon 
Roman  spears  in  Csesar's  time  ;  it  is  the  flash  of  bur 
nished  arms  in  the  sunshine.  As  you  look,  men  by 
companies  and  regiments  are  born  from  the  narrow 


262  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

breadth  ;  the  flowers  are  those  whose  fibers  feel  out  the 
graves  of  them  that  sleep.  As  you  listen,  the  swell 
from  band  after  band  rolls  in,  and  on  they  come.  And 
now  the  words  of  Reginald  Heber's  sweet,  old  song, 
escaped  from  the  book,  are  written  out  before  you  in 
War's  bold  autograph,  and 

"You  see  them  on  their  winding  way, 
About  their  ranks  the  sunbeams  play." 

Nearer  they  come,  the  music  intermits,  and  you  have 
the  heavy  tread  of  men,  and  the  tinkling  of  four  thou 
sand  tin  cups,  like  a  whole  Chaldea  of  bell-wethers. 
Heber  slips  back  into  the  book  again,  poetry  exhales, 
and  you  have  the  prose  of  six  regiments  of  fighting 
men,  the  i2Oth,  I23d,  I24th,  I28th,  I29th  and  i3Oth 
Indiana,  of  General  Hovey's  Division,  the  vanguard  of 
the  twenty  thousand  on  the  way  from  that  same 
State — new  men,  indeed,  but  worthy  guardians  of  the 
old  fame.  Five  pairs  of  flags,  gay  as  the  wings  of  but 
terflies,  went  glittering  by,  that  never  rose  and  fell  on 
the  surges  of  battle,  and  one  poor  rag,  tattered  by  the 
tempest,  borne  proudly  in  their  midst ;  the  dyes  of  the 
dyer  were  dim,  but  the  death  of  the  heroes  had  made 
the  tints  sublime.  Your  heart  would  have  warmed  to 
the  old  flag  as  it  never  could  warm  to  the  new.  This 
was  nothing  but  silk  yet,  at  so  many  dollars  a  yard,  but 


IN    CAMP    AND     FIELD.  263 

that  had  gone  up  the  ladder  of  meaning,  like  the 
angels  in  the  vision  of  the  patriarch  in  the  wilderness — 
it  had  become  COLORS.  The  productions  of  Indiana 
have  grown  grand.  By  what  stately  marches  she  steps 
into  glory  forever :  hogs,  hominy,  horses,  Hoosiers  and 
Heroes. 


The  blessed  rain  washed  down  the  smoky  air  for  the 
first  time  in  two  months,  and  came  to  the  men  in  the 
trenches  before  Petersburg  in  July,  1864,  like  a  bene 
diction.  The  little  gopher  holes  they  had  scooped  out 
with  cup  and  bayonet  ceased,  for  a  few  hours,  to  be 
wallows  of  ashes,  and  when  the  great,  clean  drops  came 
down,  sharpshooters  opened  both  eyes ;  by  common 
consent  there  was  a  lull  in  the  scattering  gusts  of  leaden 
rain,  and  our  fellows  straightened  up  in  their  burrows, 
and  showed  themselves  to  the  waistbands,  and  doffed 
their  broad-brimmed  hats ,  for  such  of  them  as  can 
read,  believed  the  saying  that  the  LORD  sendeth  His 
rain  upon  the  evil  as  well  as  upon  the  good.  The 
patter  upon  the  baking  earthworks  and  the  tinkle 
upon  the  tin  kettles  were  about  as  sweet  as  the  bugle- 
note  of  victory,  and  some  of  the  boys,  recalling  a 
snatch  of  an  old  psalm  tune,  sang,  albeit  the  spot 


264  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

where  they  lay  is  not  half  as  much  like  a  garden  as 
it  is  like  a  kennel, 

"  The  LORD  into  his  garden  comes," 
and  a  hearty  voice  burst  out  with, 

"  Refreshing  showers  of  grace  divine 
From  JESUS  flow  to  every  vine, 
And  make  the  dead  revive, 
And  make  the  dead  re-vi-ve  " — 

Crack  !  Ping — the  enemy  are  short  of  gratitude  ;  thcro 
comes  a  bullet !  and  again  there  are  ridges  of  earth  and 
not  a  man  in  sight ;  every  head  is  sowed  like  a  kernel 
of  corn  in  a  drill. 


A  single  Congressional  District  has  sent  more  men  to 
the  war  for  the  Union  than  Washington  led  over  the 
Delaware ;  six  times  as  many  as  went  up  to  Bunker 
Hill  and  glory  on  that  long-gone  day  in  June.  The 
battle  of  Tippecanoe,  that  wrought  one  man's  name 
and  fame  into  imperishable  story,  was  fought  with 
seven  hundred  men — less  than  a  round  regiment. 
What  would  the  old  Continentals  have  thought  of  such 
a  veneering  of  men  and  iron:  this  April  day,  1864,  the 


IN    CAMP    AND     FIELD.  26$ 

Federal  line  extends  from  Huntsville,  on  its  extreme 
right,  along  the  Tennessee  to  Chattanooga,  the  center, 
and  thence  onward,  our  left  resting  on  Knoxville,  and 
showing  a  grand  iron  front  of  two  hundred  and  ten 
miles,  ready  at  every  point  to  do  battle.  Beyond  our 
left,  a  thinner  line  extends  for  twenty  miles,  and 
beyond  Huntsville  another  away  to  Memphis,  present 
ing  an  impregnable  barrier  to  infantry,  unless  in  strong 
force,  and  through  which  only  cavalry  would  venture  to 
break.  Think  of  that  front  with  its  two  hundred  mile 
sweep,  swelling  out  into  fortifications,  like  the  muscular 
ridges  of  a  strong  arm,  the  rear  clamped  to  it  by  iron 
bars  all  along,  thus  placed  in  daily  and  bodily  commu 
nication,  and  made  one  by  the  instinctive  flash  of  the 
telegraph ! 

War  has  become  an  exact  science.  Take  Fort  Neg- 
ley  at  Nashville,  as  it  was,  with  its  glittering  howitzers, 
its  Parrots,  those  mighty  birds  of  prey,  its  crowded 
magazines,  its  shot  and  shell,  its  salient  angles — a 
grand  star  of  earth  and  stone  resting  on  the  summit  of 
the  hill,  with  a  radiating  power  of  thunder  and  death 
that  commands  the  approaches  in  all  directions.  The 
distance  to  each  visible  grove  and  eminence  has  been 
accurately  measured  and  mapped  out  upon  paper  in 
diverging  lines  from  the  Fort,  giving  the  length  of  the 
swing  of  the  iron  hammers.  So  the  science  of  War. 


266  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

like  the  arts  of  Peace,  has  been  developed  with  the 
accuracy  of  mathematics,  and  quickened  by  lightning 
and  by  steam,  till  smoky  battery  and  dusty  harvester 
move  to  the  compound  table  of  time  and  space  that 
characterizes  the  age : 

SIXTY  SECONDS  MAKE  ONE    ,  MILE. 


Thus  I  have  turned  over  the  trifles  in  the  "  till  "  and 
selected  a  little  handful,  and  for  the  last  let  it  be  a 
pleasant  picture  and  a  mention  of  the  dear  old  neigh 
bors  of  my  country  home,  who  donned  the  blue  and 
went  away,  some  to  wounds  and  sorrow  and  death,  but 
all  to  honor  and  duty  and  a  loving  memory.  "  Winter 
quarters "  does  not  mean  ragged  tents  crackling  with 
frost,  and  snow-drifts  in  the  corners,  but  something  as 
comfortable  as  a  Christmas  pie.  Take  the  most  natty 
bit  of  a  log  cabin  you  ever  saw,  give  it  a  toy  of  a  chim 
ney,  as  cunning  as  a  swallow's  nest,  a  close-fitting  door, 
and  a  couple  of  hands'  breadths  of  a  window  beside  it, 
as  if  the  alert  little  cottage  slept  with  one  eye  open, 
and  you  have  the  picture  of  thousands  of  soldiers' 
homes  in  Alabama  and  Tennessee.  I  have  ridden 
through  dozens  of  such  villages  within  the  month  just 
ended,  strown  all  along  upon  the  mountain  sides  and  in 


IN    CAMP    AND    FIELD.  267 

the  valleys,  and  there  is  about  them  an  air  of  comfort 
as  warm  as  a  hearty  welcome.  Now  and  then,  a  hamlet 
wears  decidedly  a  city  look.  One  has  its  doors  num 
bered  and  porches  before  them.  Indeed,  I  saw  several 
tenements  that  would  have  graced  elegant  grounds  as 
rustic  cottages ;  and  one  little  Gothic  structure,  midway 
between  Chattanooga  and  Kelly's  Ferry,  should  have 
its  portrait  in  some  volume  of  "  Rural  Architecture." 

It  was  in  such  a  beautiful  encampment  that  I  last 
saw  the  ic>5th  Illinois,  and  no  better  material  ever  went 
to  the  Front  from  the  Prairie  State — of  such  stuff  as 
made  the  34th  and  7Qth  Illinois,  that  stood  in  their 
tracks  and  fired  eighty  rounds  without  a  backward  step. 
Daniel  Dustin,  its  Colonel,  won  and  wore  a  star;  its 
Lieutenant-Colonel  was  Henry  F.  Valletta ;  Major,  E. 
F.  Button;  Surgeons,  H.  S.  Potter — who  at  once 
assumed  Brigade  duties,  was  killed  on  the  field,  and 
when  they  made  a  grave  for  him  they  laid  in  it  one  of 
nature's  truest  noblemen — A.  Waterman  and  G.  W. 
Briggs.  Its  Captains  were  of  the  sort  that  lead  a  for 
lorn  hope  without  faltering.  The  rank  and  file  were 
like  a  field  of  wheat,  the  bearded  grain  and  the  flowers 
that  grow  between,  stalwart  manhood  and  youth,  with 
the  springing  step.  I  can  count  with  a  glance  of  the 
eye  from  the  threshold  of  my  old  cottage  home,  in  the 
little  village  of  Wheaton,  thirteen  dwellings,  and  from 


268  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

every  one  of  them  soldiers,  sometimes  in  pairs,  have 
departed  ;  struggling  in  the  terrible  days  of  the  Poto 
mac  ;  crowding  on  into  the  rough  weather  of  northern 
Georgia.  The  old  enthusiasm  that  kindled  the  homes 
of  Du  Page  into  altars  of  sacrifice  seems  to  me  most 
like  the  song  of  bugles  in  a  dream. 

Time  passed,  and  again  I  went  in  sight  of  the  little 
mountain  city  of  the  io5th.  It  was  dismantled  and 
lone.  The  triumphal  curves  of  evergreen  had  faded 
and  fallen  ;  the  blue  smokes  no  longer  threaded  their 
way  up  from  the  little  chimneys ;  the  smooth  streets 
were  deserted.  Where  were  the  groups  of  blue  I  had 
seen ;  the  gay  laugh  I  had  heard  ;  the  glittering  arms 
that  flashed  on  my  sight?  Fleeting  as  a  dream,  the 
regiment  had  slung  the  knapsack  and  beat  the  drum 
and  gone  on  towards  the  terrible  Front.  Wading  in 
deep  waters,  falling  on  fields  of  red  fame,  languishing 
in  hospitals — who  shall  read  the  record  of  those  strong, 
manly  ranks  without  a  throb  of  pain  and  pride? — and 
through  all,  fighting  for  the  homes  in  Kendall,  De  Kalb 
and  Du  Page,  the  gardens  of  Illinois.  And  to-day  I 
call  out  of  the  loneliness,  and  as  so  many  times  before, 
so  now  out  of  my  heart  I  bid  ye,  old  friends  of  the 
io5th  Illinois,  hail  and  farewell! 


IN     CAMP    AND    FIELD.  269 


ENDED. 

It  was  a  day  in  later  autumn.  In  a  fire-place,  laid  in 
mud  like  a  swallow's  nest,  its  wild  sprout  of  a  chimney 
budded  out  at  the  top  with  a  barrel,  and  looking  like  a 
monument  to  the  last  bricklayer,  burned  an  old-fash 
ioned  fire  built  of  wood  from  Mission  Ridge,  and 
crackling  with  feeble  memories  of  the  musketry  of  the 
grand  old  battle.  The  drums,  with  their  flutters  and 
cheers,  their  single  ruffles  and  double  drags,  like  the 
wicked,  had  "  ceased  from  troubling ;  "  Bonaparte  had 
got  over  the  Rhine  ;  "  Nancy  Dawson  "  slipped  out  at 
the  shrill  end  of  the  fifes,  and  the  bugles  had  warbled 
good  night. 

Again  it  is  a  day  in  later  autumn.  The  trees  have 
struck  their  colors  to  grace  the  dying  year.  This  wood, 
now  burning  at  my  feet,  never  shook  in  the  tempest  of 
battle.  These  old  Chenango  hills  never  mocked  the 
thunder  of  the  shotted  gun.  The  robin  in  the  mountain 
ash  sits  silent  mid  the  rubies,  and  takes  his  last  supper  in 
the  chilly  North.  The  songs  of  the  summer  are  over 
and  gone.  I  turn  these  leaves  as  Hebrew  children 
read,  back  to  the  book's  beginning,  and  every  chapter 
is  a  hook  whereon  to  hang  a  memory — one  glorious, 
another  sad,  but  all  imperishable.  Clear,  earnest  eyes 


270  PICTURES    OF    LIFE 

and  faces  brave  and  grand,  no  other  reader  sees,  look 
at  me  from  the  pages  as  I  turn ;  some  with  a  dying 
glance,  and  some  with  a  bright  smile  of  friendly  recog 
nition.  The  graves  are  made  ;  the  sword  is  sheathed  ; 
the  musket  hangs  dumb  upon  its  wooden  hooks ;  the 
white  blessings  of  pea.ce  like  lilies  strow  the  water 
and  blossom  along  the  land  like  daisies  in  the  June 
pastures.  Then 

"  Farewell  the  plumed  troop  and  the  big  wars  ! " 

Among  the  mountains,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I 
have  seen  clouds  born.  Breaths  of  vapor,  like  smokes 
from  camp-fires,  wreathe  their  way  up  above  the  tops 
of  the  trees  in  one  place  and  another,  looking  thin  and 
pale  in  the  early  morning.  You  have  not  the  least  idea 
what  will  come  of  it  all ;  but,  by  and  by,  they  melt  into 
one,  assume  volume  and  color,  and  before  you  think  of 
it,  a  cloud,  made  up  of  a  whole  family  of  the  little 
breaths,  is  sailing  grandly  away.  Thunder  is  born  of 
it.  There  are  clouds  that  are  born  of  the  thunder. 
May  they  never  again  darken  the  valley  or  mantle  the 
mountain  in  this  our  day,  till  War  in  the  new  world 
shall  be  a  calm  and  pensive  memory,  far  off  and  beau 
tiful  as  the  thought  of  a  crimson  and  golden  sunset  in 
the  WEST. 


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